


Bird Set Free

by IAmANonnieMouse



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Compliant, Eames-centric, F/M, M/M, Military Backstory, Multi, POV Eames, Soulmate AU, Soulmates, This is the anti-soulmate fic, Toxic Soulmate, You Have Been Warned, tons of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2018-08-22 07:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8277343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: Eames had heard it described a million times as a child.Based on this post: I’m kinda bored of soulmate AUs but I really like the concept so I was thinking...





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One fine afternoon, I found a post on Tumblr about Soulmates. (I'll link it when I remember how to navigate technology again.) So I sent it to Flosculatory, and within minutes, an outline for a fic was born.
> 
> This is the fic. It is horribly, unforgivably angsty. You have been warned.
> 
> (Fic Title from Sia's song, [Bird Set Free.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqNp-KXiAHo))

The waves lapped against the boat hypnotically. Eames forced his eyes away and found himself staring at the shrinking coastline instead.

“Nervous, son?” an older man asked.

Eames started. “No. No, sir. I’m fine.”

The man smiled gently. “Might want to loosen that grip, then. Bad for the circulation.”

Eames glanced down at his white knuckles. One by one, he unpeeled his fingers from the metal railing and flexed them tentatively.

The man leaned on the railing, rocking with the motion of the boat. “First time?”

Eames swallowed. “Is it that obvious?”

The man gestured to Eames’ chest. “That is.”

Eames glanced down. His other hand was clutching the fabric of his shirt directly over his heart.

“You get used to it over time. The emptiness.” The man patted Eames’ shoulder and walked away.

Eames glanced back at the coastline, fingers tensing against his shirt then abruptly relaxing. _That_ was only part of the problem.

~+~+~

Eames had heard it described a million times as a child. The first time you meet them, time seems to stop, and something inside of you tightens, like a cord tying you together forever. The bond is strong, so instantaneous, it is almost too easy to lose yourself in them.

Eames had watched it happen, had seen two random strangers suddenly squeal and hug each other tightly in the middle of a shopping mall, had seen two classmates freeze and run to each other during class, and he wondered when it would happen to him. Kids talked carelessly about it during lunch, high school hallways were filled with Soulmates clinging to each other in various states of intimacy, and Eames waited and waited and waited for that special someone. He worried that he had missed it, that that random moment from last week had actually been a sign, not just a moment of nervous flutterings in his stomach, and he tossed and turned in his bed most nights.

The day it happened to him, he wondered how he had ever thought he could miss it.

It hit him like an eighteen-wheeler, so strong that his breath caught in his throat, and he grabbed at his shirt reflexively, shocked by the strange sensation in his chest, like rope pulled taut then released, slightly. He looked around the half-empty library wildly and his eyes fell on the man standing a few feet away, frozen in place.

The man slowly walked over to him, eyes wide. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The man’s brilliant blue eyes were framed with faint crow’s feet. His tie was a dark, shimmering blue with a faint pattern etched in it. Eames stared.

“Hey,” the man said. He stepped forward and put a hand on Eames’ shoulder, and suddenly, perfectly, everything inside Eames loosened and relaxed and just sighed with contentment, and Eames had to let his weight fall into the man so that he wouldn’t just melt onto the floor. The man grunted softly.

“I’m Eames,” he mumbled into the man’s perfectly pressed shirt.

The man breathed deeply. “Arthur.”

“Arthur,” Eames said with a sigh. The name fit perfectly in his mouth, floated off his lips.

“Yes?”

Eames laughed nervously and accidentally inhaled Arthur’s cologne, something strong and spicy and dry. He pulled away to sneeze.

Arthur chuckled and patted Eames on the head. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

He took Eames to a restaurant that had more spoons and forks at the place setting than Eames knew what to do with. He chuckled tolerantly when Eames butchered the words on the menu. He ordered for Eames with a confident flick of his hand and smiled sharply when the food was brought to the table.

“You’ll like it,” he said.

Eames thought it was alright, for overpriced meat. But he would have been just as content with a cheeseburger.

Eames took Arthur to the park afterwards, and Arthur bought him an ice cream. They watched the ducks swim in the pond and Eames laughed so hard when one splashed Arthur that he lost the rest of his ice cream. Arthur scowled and plucked at the damp fabric with the tips of his fingers.

“Great,” he muttered. “Just great.”

“That was hilarious,” Eames cackled.

Arthur glared. “Says the kid who clearly has no respect for clothes or fashion.”

Eames’ laugh died in his throat. He felt like his ice cream, a pitiful lump on the ground that only moments before had been pristine and perfect.

“Sorry.” Arthur sighed harshly. “Sorry. I just. Whatever. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

The sun wasn’t even starting to set when Arthur pushed Eames into his car—something black, shiny, and fancy that probably cost more than Eames’ house—and asked for his address. They sat in silence for the whole ride. Eames plucked at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt.

Arthur sighed as he parked on the curb in front of Eames’ house. “I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter. “I’ve been having a bad time at work, and I took it out on you.”

Eames swallowed. “S’alright,” he mumbled.

Arthur muttered something too faintly for Eames to hear. “Here,” he said, and pushed a card into Eames’ hands. _Arthur Winston,_ it read, with a phone number and address. “Call whenever.”

Eames nodded, staring at the card.

Arthur sighed again, and then a warmth was settling around Eames’ shoulders, and Eames couldn’t control his body’s reaction, the shudder and instantaneous melting muscles.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said for a third time, whispering it into Eames’ ear. He brushed a kiss against Eames’ temple, made Eames’ breath catch and eyes flutter. “Do you forgive me?”

“Yes,” Eames breathed, high on the warmth seeping through his body from Arthur’s touch. “I do.”

“Good.” Arthur ran a gentle hand through Eames’ hair and pulled away. Eames’ body already ached at the loss. “Call me tomorrow. I’ll take you out when I get out of work.”

“Okay,” Eames said. He smiled at Arthur as he got out of the car.

“Eames?” his mother called when he walked in the door.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s me.”

“I put the leftovers in the fridge,” she said. 

“Okay,” he said, biting back a rude comment. Eames loved his mother, he really did, but he wished just this once that she would ask him about his day, ask him where he’s been all day. _I met my soulmate today,_ he wanted to tell her, but he knew she would just hum and nod and ask him to come back when the show she was watching was finished.

He heard the rev of Arthur’s car and watched the headlights race across the small hall. The tautness that had been in his chest since he first saw Arthur suddenly intensified, pulled, _tugged_. He pressed himself against the wall next to the door, breathing heavily, and wondered when it would stop. He could dimly make out the taillights of Arthur’s car in the distance, and he stared at them, wondering if Arthur could feel this too.

Arthur drove away, and the tightness worsened. He clutched at his chest, trying to grab for the cord he could _feel_ pulling him apart, but his hands clutched his shirt and skin. He barely felt it as he slid to the floor, the cold tiles offering a hint of comfort, distraction from the sudden pain. He gasped weakly, hands grappling with the air, clawing at the door, his chest, trying to eradicate the pain.

“Arthur,” he breathed, eyes clenched shut. The cord stretched tighter, farther. Eames vaguely wondered if it would be like a rubber band, if it would snap when pulled too far, and he couldn’t help but think anything would be a relief from this, anything at all.

The pain plateaued at a level just below completely unbearable, and Eames felt his breathing even out slightly. He slept on the floor in the hall, head resting against the wall, with one hand pressed against the door, the other resting on top of his chest.

~+~+~

When Eames woke up, the pain was still there. The sun was streaming in through the window, and he could hear the TV from the other room, where his mother had probably fallen asleep on the couch again.

It was Monday. Eames needed to go to class.

He stood unsteadily. He managed to make it to the next room, step by painstaking step, to grab his backpack. He knew without trying that he wouldn’t make it upstairs to his bedroom to change his clothes. He grabbed an apple from the plate on the table and stared longingly at the fridge that was just out of reach.

When he left the house, the tightness lessened, just barely, and he thought this was manageable, that he could learn to live like this. But then he turned the corner to go to school and the pain was back, only worse, but it was Monday and Eames had class and he missed Arthur and he wondered where Arthur was right now and he wondered if that was too pitiful but then this was his Soulmate he was thinking about, and then everything snapped, just like Eames had thought last night, just like a rubber band pulled too far, and Eames wondered if this was what dying was like, fast and painful, and then he didn’t think anything else.

~+~+~

He woke up to Arthur’s blue eyes.

“Hi,” he said groggily.

“Hi,” Arthur said, reaching for Eames’ hand.

It took Eames a moment to realize—he wasn’t in any pain. “Oh,” he said to himself.

“What?” Arthur asked.

“I don’t feel it,” Eames said. He gestured at his chest. “You know?”

Eames couldn’t read the expression in Arthur’s eyes. “You’re okay now,” Arthur said eventually.  
“But you can’t do this to yourself every day.”

“But school—” Eames began.

“Move in with me,” Arthur interrupted.

And there were a million reasons not to, like the fact that Eames was working towards his degree in History and Psychology, and the fact that Eames had only just met Arthur yesterday, and the fact that Eames had a plan for his life that hadn’t involved his soulmate, but his body’s chemistry was working against him, and Arthur’s fingers tracing over Eames’ knuckles was just enough to make his brain go fuzzy around the edges, and his mouth was forming the word before he made the conscious decision.

“Yes,” he said.

Arthur smiled sharply.

~+~+~

“I’ll take care of everything,” Arthur had said, and Eames let him. Eames let him talk to doctors and teachers and even his mother, let Arthur clean up all the pieces from his life pre-Soulmate so that when Eames was released from the hospital a few days later, all he had to do was get in Arthur’s shiny, fancy car.

“Did the doctors say,” Eames asked, “why this happened?”

Arthur was quiet for a moment. “No,” he said.

Eames felt that he had a fairly good understanding of people, and his first impressions of people were usually right. He could read people better than the professionals, he used to say. So he thought about Arthur’s response and let that sick feeling settle in the pit of his stomach as Arthur opened the garage doors. Because even though he’d only met the man yesterday, Eames knew without a doubt that Arthur had lied to him.

~+~+~

It was frighteningly easy to settle into his new life. Eames cooked the meals, because it’s what he had done at home and he liked it, and he couldn’t help but glow every time Arthur smiled at him when he took his first bite or patted Eames on the shoulder or head. He moved to the sitting room every morning when Arthur left for work, because it was the only room in the house where he could sit without being in too much pain, and he started to make dinner the moment he felt Arthur leave work and start the drive home, and Arthur always gave him a hug or kissed him on the forehead and _God,_ Eames started to live for those little touches, for that feeling of pure perfection that flowed through him.

And at night, Arthur went into his room, and Eames went in his own room, because Arthur said Eames should have his own room so he didn’t feel completely tied to Arthur, so he could have his own independence, supposedly, and Eames really didn’t care either way, but Arthur seemed to want him to sleep in another room, so Eames did.

And Eames sometimes wondered if this was how it was for others with their Soulmates, but he decided it didn’t really matter because he had found his Soulmate, because he was living with his Soulmate, and it was good.

~+~+~

Arthur started coming home from work later and later each day.

“Business meeting went late,” he would say. Or, “Boss took everyone out for drinks,” or, “Lost track of time. Sorry.”

And Eames found it harder to smile forgivingly each night, especially when he caught the faint smell of floral perfume on his clothes. And then one night he spotted the smear of red lipstick on Arthur’s collar and had to excuse himself from the table to go hide in his room and tell himself that no, the universe hadn’t royally screwed up, because Arthur’s touch never ceased to warm him, and Arthur’s name just felt _right_ every time he said it, and what the hell else was the dammed tightness in his chest for, then, if not to remind him that his Soulmate was far away from him?

And he composed himself and came back into the kitchen with a smile so fake he was shocked it didn’t shatter, and Arthur asked him when if he was ever going to do the dishes or just leave them sitting the sink like a slob and Eames clenched his jaw so tightly it creaked.

~+~+~

Arthur had a business meeting at corporate headquarters. It was further away than his office.

Eames tried everything he could think of, but the pain was too much, and he passed out just like he had on his way to class so long ago.

~+~+~

He woke up to Arthur’s blue eyes, twin shards of ice.

“What the fuck was that!” he shouted. Eames noticed detachedly that his hair was drenched and hanging in limp clumps in his face. It was funny, in some oblique way.

“I passed out in front of the CEO!” Arthur raged. “Do you understand that? The fucking CEO! Because you couldn’t fucking cope! How do you think that makes me look, huh? Like some fucking idiot whose Soulmate is so fucking weak he can’t—” He turned and stalked away with a growl. Eames watched him, wondering if he shouldn’t be feeling more…attached right now.

“Are you going to fucking say anything?” Arthur roared.

Eames shrugged.

Arthur scoffed and grabbed his coat. His sneer was sharp as cut glass. “Fuck this,” he muttered. He slammed the door on his way out.

Eames sat on the floor for a while. Then he stood, shakily. Then he walked into Arthur’s office and turned on the computer and typed and clicked and read until the sky outside was pitch black. Arthur hadn’t come home.

Eames found the forms he needed, and he printed them and filled them out. There was a line at the bottom, for his Soulmate.

Eames used to have lots of hobbies, pre-Soulmate. Like reading people, picking locks, just little things to do when he got bored. And although it was definitely harder to continue with his extracurriculars post-Soulmate, he didn’t completely give them up.

So he signed Arthur’s name at the bottom of the page without any hesitation, and the man at the Army Recruitment desk didn’t even look twice when he took the forms out of Eames’ hands. And the doctor who filled his Army-approved prescription for Soul-Bond Suppressants looked like he was barely awake.

And Eames tried not to act like the small bottle of pills wasn’t his lifeline, even as he bought an overpriced bottle of water to swallow the first one and stood dazedly for a few moments, wondering at the sudden, blissful, _miraculous_ emptiness in his chest. _This_ was why he was willing to join the army, because Soul-Bond Suppressants were only available to the richest-rich, or soldiers in the army. And Eames wasn’t even remotely rich.

And so Eames stepped onto the boat and watched the retreating shore and wondered if Arthur had read his note yet, all two lines of it, and wondered if he was ever going to have to see him again. He hoped not.

“You get used to it over time,” the man told him.

 _I’m used to it already,_ Eames wanted to say. He turned away from the shoreline and watched the ocean stretch out in front of him and thought that life could only get better from here.  
 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames met Sergeant Levine in Project Somnacin, the Top-Top Secret military experiment that, technically, didn’t exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourselves.

Eames met Sergeant Levine in Project Somnacin, the Top-Top Secret military experiment that, technically, didn’t exist.

He was on a team of five other soldiers, each one with a chip on their shoulder. There was Michaels, the razor-thin, beady-eyed sniper who had a penchant for riddles; Jones, the young, starry-eyed patriot who never hesitated when accepting an order; Weisman, the loud-mouthed, cynical New Yorker; Sanchez, the snarky, quick-witted Marine; and Kim, the small, silent, and deadly close-quarters combat specialist who could throw full-grown men over her shoulders.

Sergeant Levine, though, was a mystery to him. The man was their main instructor for Project Somnacin, and he spent all of his time either shouting at his soldiers or killing them in his dreams. Literally. Because Project Somnacin was an experiment in shared dreaming.

Eames and his fellow soldiers spent hours every day sedated in bed, fighting off subconscious foes and building impossible structures. And apparently, Sergeant Levine’s duties were to both instruct them fully in dreamsharing and to scare the living shit out of them.

The first day they were faced with their baby-faced, steel-eyed instructor, most of the men laughed outright.

Sergeant Levine cocked an eyebrow. “Good afternoon, soldiers,” he said. “I’m Sergeant Levine.”

“Where’s your CO, buddy?” Weisman asked.

Sergeant Levine smirked and held out a needle attached to a thin piece of clear tubing. “Shall we begin, then?”

“Wait,” Michaels said, “what are we doing, exactly?”

Sergeant Levine didn’t look away from Weisman, and Weisman finally scoffed and said, “Yeah, sure, buddy, I’ll bite,” and snatched the needle from Sergeant Levine’s hands.

“One moment,” Sergeant Levine said to the others, briskly inserting a similar device into his own arm. “Sit,” he ordered Weisman.

Weisman sneered. “Whatever you say, princess.”

He lounged in his chair as Sergeant Levine fiddled with a strange, chunky piece of equipment. “Five minutes,” Sergeant Levine announced, then pushed a button.

Weisman’s eyelids fluttered, then his head lolled to one side.

Eames looked at the other soldiers and saw matching looks of confusion. He opened his mouth to ask if anyone knew what was happening when Weisman suddenly woke, flailing so violently that he fell out of his chair.

“What the ever-loving fuck, man!” he shouted, staggering to his feet and pressing a hand against his throat. 

Sergeant Levine smiled slowly, confidently. “Welcome to Project Somnacin,” he said.

~+~+~

They covered the basics—stable dreams, constructing mazes, fighting projections—over the first few weeks, and Eames fell in love. He spent hours every day creating beautiful, fantastical, incredible things, and the real world, when he was awake, was always so much more disappointing.

One afternoon, when he was cutting it close for a team meeting, Eames tried to reconstruct the staircase in front of him into the Penrose steps. It took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t dreaming. He wondered if that was something he should be concerned about.

~+~+~

“We’re going down another layer,” Sergeant Levine announced the next morning. “So we need two dreamers.” His dark eyes flickered over their faces. “Eames, Michaels, you’re up.”

The procedure was already second nature, and after Eames heard the faint hissing from the PASIV, his eyes opened to a familiar crowded street.

 _Fuck,_ he thought.

“First thing you need to do?” Sergeant Levine asked.

“Find cover,” Sanchez answered.

Sergeant Levine nodded, and they all scanned the area. Eames saw the small corner store he always bought his groceries from, the son of the family that lived across the street, and, finally, the building he and Arthur had lived in.

He knew what building the team would pick.

As they moved as one unit to the small structure and Weisman knocked down the door, Eames told himself it was fine; Arthur was still at work.

“This is a dream,” he muttered to himself.

“What’s that?” Jones asked.

“Nothing,” Eames said. 

They spread out and dutifully hooked themselves up to the PASIV Sergeant Levine had brought down with him.

Sergeant Levine’s eyes scanned Eames, up and down then up again. “You all set here?” he asked.

Eames swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

He looked at Eames a moment longer, then nodded.

“Ten minutes,” he announced to the team, and pressed the button.

Eames glanced around the still-familiar rooms. It was so quiet inside here. Had it always been this quiet? He wandered over to the fridge and opened it. Inside was that half-empty bottle of wine that Arthur had opened two nights before Eames had left.

He shut the fridge and wandered aimlessly around the sitting room. The only open seat was the one right under the window where Eames had sat day in and day out, waiting for the tight pain to fade. His hand traveled to his chest, reflexively, as it twinged slightly, a phantom. He had almost completely forgotten the sensation.

He glanced at his watch. Five minutes left.

He looked around at the sleeping men around him, and he paused at Sergeant Levine’s face. He looked so much younger in sleep, Eames realized. Too young to be so proficient in this virtually nonexistent field. “What’s your story?” Eames asked him.

The door flew open, clattering against the wall. Eames whirled around, gun raised, aiming right between Arthur’s eyes.

“Whatever you did to my fucking door,” Arthur said, stripping off his coat, “you’re fucking paying for it.”

“Hello, Arthur,” Eames said.

“What’s for dinner?” Arthur asked, brushing past Eames into the kitchen.

Eames didn’t answer, but he kept Arthur in his sights, gun raised.

“Eames?” Arthur said as he opened the fridge and pulled out the wine. He glanced behind him and scoffed. “Put that toy away before you actually hurt someone.” He turned back towards the fridge and rummaged around inside of it.

Eames glanced at the clock. One minute.

His finger curled around the trigger, but it refused to tighten.

“Figures,” Arthur was muttering. “You didn’t even manage to cook dinner tonight. What the fuck do you do all day, huh? I work my ass off to pay for this while you sit around and waste the day.” He scoffed again. “What a fucking life.” He turned to Eames and smiled that sharp, painful smile. “Maybe we should switch one day. You can go into the office and deal with my stupid shit, and I’ll sit here and be the beauty queen.”

Eames’ finger twitched. He had to take care of this, couldn’t let Sergeant Levine and the others see.

“No, screw that,” Arthur said, taking a long gulp of wine directly from the bottle. “You wouldn’t be able to handle it. You never even graduated fucking college.”

“Whose fault was that?” Eames demanded, before he could stop himself.

Arthur turned to him, crystal blue eyes blazing. “You gonna pin that on me?” he hissed, walking into the sitting room. “You gonnna blame me for your useless shit?” He laughed, a jagged exhalation of air. “That’s fucking rich.”

Eames heard the team behind him stir.

“Eames?” Jones asked quietly.

Arthur glanced at them. “Who the fuck are they?” he asked Eames.

Eames took a deep breath, stared Arthur in the eye, and pulled the trigger.

The noise sounded explosive in the quiet room.

“What the fuck?” Weisman asked.

“It’s nothing,” Eames managed just before they woke up.

“Nice work today,” Sergeant Levine said as Eames’ eyes flickered open. “Eames? A word.”

The others glanced at him sympathetically as they trooped out the door.

“Sorry, Sergeant,” Eames said quietly when they were alone. “It won’t happen again.”

Sergeant Levine frowned. “What exactly are you apologizing for?”

Eames looked down at his hands.

“Are you apologizing for hesitating to shoot that projection?” Sergeant Levine continued. “Or for letting him appear in the first place?”

Eames glanced up in surprise and caught a hint of a smile on the Sergeant’s face.

“Look,” Sergeant Levine said, stepping closer. “I make a point not to ask about everybody’s personal lives, so I’ll just say this.” He placed a hand on Eames’ shoulder. “Everyone’s got their ghosts. The trick is to not let them control you. From the looks of it, you’re doing pretty well.” He nodded once and left the room, boots clicking on the floor as he walked down the hall.

Eames stayed in his chair for a long while, feeling the heat from Sergeant Levine’s hand seep through his clothes and into his skin.

~+~+~

Things were different after that, somehow.

Levine started taking them through more complicated exercises. “Tell me Weisman’s greatest fear,” he said one day before sending them under. Another was, “What was Sanchez’s first date?”

The first few times, they bumbled around until the timer went off, trying not to anger the projections too much. When they went into Kim’s subconscious, they were all killed within minutes.

They managed to figure it out with Jones, whose subconscious manifested as his childhood home. “Jones’ favorite childhood friend,” Levine had said.

It was Michaels who suggested they look through his bedroom. Eames found the tattered, stained stuffed poodle, sitting enshrined on top of the bed like it was a throne. The collar read, “Mr. Oodles the Poodle.”

They got better after that. They figured out how to trick the subconscious, how to pinpoint the most likely hideaways. They also learned some very interesting things about each other, like Sanchez’s fear of ants, Weisman’s dislike of the color orange, and Kim’s weakness for small puppies.

The team was unable to crack Eames’ subconscious, much to Eames’ relief. He didn’t want to know what things that Arthur would tell them.

~+~+~

A few months in, Levine started working with each of them individually, in order to hone their most prominent skills, he said. Eames’ sessions with the Sergeant were exhausting.

Each day he was sent into Levine’s subconscious, tasked with uncovering something about the Sergeant. “Anything at all,” Levine said.

So far, the only thing Eames had managed to discover was that Levine’s subconscious was a wily as a fox, toxic as a sting ray, and unforgiving as a hurricane. Eames had been beaten, stabbed, and choked—and he knew that there was more waiting for him.

“This is bloody awful,” he groused at dinner to the others.

“Tell me about it,” Michaels said. “If I see another fucking maze in my lifetime, it will be too damn soon.”

“What?” Eames said.

“Mazes,” Michaels said. “The Sarge is making me build mazes every day, and then he solves them in like ten seconds flat and tells me to do better.”

“Lucky,” Weisman commented. “I’m supposed to just waltz in, piss off his subconscious, and try to last as long as I can before they kill me.”

Jones’ eyes widened.

“The longest I’ve lasted is twenty-five minutes,” Weisman said. “Dream time.”

“Well, clearly we’re all doing different things,” Kim said. “I’ve only dreamt twice this last week.”

“Twice?” Eames asked.

Kim nodded. “He makes me sit in this room with him and research one man. Every detail you can possibly think of. I’ve read his tax reports, his emails, his mortgage.”

Sanchez cackled. “That’s rich, man!”

Kim arched her brow.

“I’m exploring,” Sanchez declared proudly. “How low can you go, baby!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Weisman muttered.

“Layers,” Sanchez said. “How many layers I can make in a dream before it totally falls apart. Fun stuff, man.”

Jones frowned. “That sounds…creepy.”

“Yeah, don’t you get all turned around from that?” Michaels asked. “I can barely keep reality straight when I go down one level.”

“It’s all good,” Sanchez said, waving a hand dismissively. “I got this.”

“What about you, Jones?” Eames asked. “Fun tasks?”

Jones shrugged. “If you like chemistry, then sure.”

Sanchez pretended he was throwing up.

Jones smirked. “Yeah, I figured. I’m messing with the drug they give us to put us to sleep. Trying to make it more stable, that kind of thing.”

Kim frowned. “Seems equally dangerous.”

“Only if you take a bad batch,” Jones said. “I’m being careful.”

“What about you, Eames?” Michaels asked.

Eames shrugged. “I’m just running in circles. He sends me under and tells me to find out something about him. I’ve got nothing yet.”

“Sucks to be you,” Weisman declared, raising his water in Eames’ direction.

“Thanks, mate,” Eames said.

“We’re here for you, bud,” Sanchez said, slapping him on the back.

~+~+~

“Out?” Eames asked. “What do you mean ‘out’?”

The man at the Pharmacy rolled his eyes. “I mean we don’t have any at all. The government’s been pretty shitty in sending us the shipments regularly. We’ll probably get them by the end of the week.”

Eames did the math in his head. He had ten Suppressants left. That would be fine. It wouldn’t be an issue.

“Thank you,” he said numbly.

Ten Suppressants left. Only three more days in the week. It wouldn’t be a problem. It wasn’t a problem.

He could almost feel the pain in his chest already.

~+~+

“Your first mission,” Levine said that afternoon, throwing a manila folder on the table at the front of the room.

Kim stood and picked it up. “Extraction,” she read. “Mark: Peter Goldfinch. Proof of collaboration with enemy forces.”

Levine nodded. “Kim has all the background information you need. She will debrief you. Make a plan. You have three days.”

~+~+~

They were transported to the city, and Eames knew they all stuck out like sore thumbs.

“Goldfinch will be arriving at his hotel at 1400,” Kim said.

“Try to sound more military, why don’t you?” Sanchez quipped.

“Which way’s the hotel?” Jones asked.

“North,” Weisman said.

Jones stared blankly.

“You’re a horrible soldier,” Weisman said.

“I know,” Jones said.

“This way, ladies!” Sanchez called. 

Eames followed the others, distracted by the thought that his Suppressants could be sitting in the Pharmacy right now, and he didn’t have them. He had seven Suppressants left, he reminded himself. He was fine.

They checked into the room that Levine had booked under a false name and quickly set up. 

“Wait, how do we get to him?” Jones asked.

Michaels sighed. “He’s in the room right next to us. We get him while he’s asleep.”

“Then why are we here so early?”

“Dammit, Jones,” Weisman said. “We went over this.”

“It would be suspicious,” Kim said.

Sanchez pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket. “Who’s in a gambling mood?” he asked, wiggling the deck.

~+~+~

Sanchez was the one who managed to get Goldfinch’s hotel room door open, after twenty tense minutes.

“Thank God,” Jones whispered as the door softly clicked and swung open.

Michaels punched him on the arm.

Kim quietly darted inside, and by the time the others made it in, she had already scanned the room and hooked Goldfinch up to the PASIV.

Eames gave her a thumbs up in the semidarkness.

“Quickly,” Kim whispered.

They hooked themselves up, and Kim pressed the button.

~+~+~

They woke up in a dark, silent house.

“Where do we start looking?” Jones asked.

Weisman sighed. “Everywhere, and fast.”

“Kim’s watching our backs,” Eames said.

“Yeah,” Weisman agreed. “But she can’t stop that timer when it runs out.”

They moved through the house together, familiarizing themselves with the floor plan. Then, headlights shone through the front window, dancing across the length of the wall.

“Someone’s coming,” Jones announced.

Michaels dragged him behind the couch against the wall.

They crouched quietly in their sorry excuses for hideaways and heard the car door close. The door creaked open, and the hall light flicked on. Someone sighed.

 _Goldfinch,_ Sanchez mouthed at Eames.

Eames nodded, barely.

Goldfinch rustled around in the kitchen, opened and closed a door, then walked upstairs to his bedroom.

“Split up,” Michaels whispered. “He’s gotta have something in here somewhere.”

They all darted from their hiding places. Sanchez moved towards the office, Jones the kitchen, Michaels the basement, and Weisman the upstairs.

Eames took a deep breath and stood. When he turned around, he came face to face with Arthur.

He sucked in a gasp of air, his heart jackrabbiting.

Arthur stared at him, silently. His eyes glinted.

Eames shifted to the left, barely. In a flash, Arthur’s hand shot out and grabbed Eames’ arm.

“No,” Arthur said.

“Arthur,” Eames breathed, feeling that sickeningly warm sensation spread through him from Arthur’s touch, even in a dream.

Arthur’s grip tightened.

Eames’ other hand drifted down towards his side, where his gun was holstered.

“Arthur,” Eames said again.

Everything happened so quickly. Jones came barreling into the room, shouting, “Eames, you got to see this!” Arthur whirled on him, teeth bared in a snarl, and Eames grabbed at Arthur’s arm instinctively. All the lights in the house blazed to life, and as Eames squinted in the sudden brightness, something collided with the side of his head, then his stomach. As he fell to the floor, he caught a glimpse of Arthur—and of Goldfinch, baseball bat in hand, turning towards Jones.

~+~+~

Eames woke up and was faced with Levine’s eyes.

“Urgh,” he managed.

Levine raised an eyebrow.

Eames bolted upright. “Uh, sir,” he started.

The others were waking up. Eames caught Kim’s eye, and she shrugged expressively.

“What did you find?” Levine asked them all.

“Uh, sir,” Jones said, “Goldfinch is going to wake up any minute.”

“What did you find?” Levine repeated.

Everyone shook their heads. “Sorry, sir,” Sanchez murmured.

“His daughter,” Jones said quietly.

Levine turned to him. “Yes?”

“His daughter is dating the son of the head of the KGB.”

“Proof?” Levine asked.

“There was a photo of her on the table, with her boyfriend.”

Levine smiled. “Well done.” He turned to Kim. “You too.”

She ducked her head. “I didn’t know it was you, sir.”

“Exactly.” Levine stood and brushed some invisible lint off his pants. “Meeting tomorrow at 0600,” he said and walked out the door.

“What just happened?” Michaels asked.

~+~+~

When they got back to base, Eames went straight to the Pharmacy.

“Here you go,” the man said, handing over the small orange bottle.

Eames tried not to grasp them too tightly.

“This happen a lot lately?” he asked. “The running out thing?”

The man shrugged. “It depends on the day.”

~+~+~

Eames didn’t dream as much as he used to. None of them did—some strange side-effect from their dreamsharing. But that night, Eames dreamed of guns, mazes, and two pairs of eyes—one bright blue, the other a deep, bottomless brown. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I managed to conquer the complications of technology (barely). [This](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/iamanonniemouse/148909714727) should link you to the Soulmate post that was the inspiration for this fic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can make anything else in a dream,” Eames said. “Why can’t we make people too?”

Levine watched them silently as they filed into the room for their meeting.

“Sir?” Jones asked softly, after they had been sitting for long minutes.

“Yesterday’s mission,” Levine said, “was a test run. It was meant to be field practice. The man you were extracting from works for the Department of Defense. He volunteered to take part in the exercise.”

Eames glanced at the others.

“Due to your success,” Levine continued, “an investigation has been launched regarding Goldfinch’s activities. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I think you deserve to know that he will likely be dismissed by the end of next week.”

“Wait,” Weisman said. “What?”

Levine pushed a manila envelope towards the center of the table. It was filled with more than the last one had been.

“Your first real mission,” he told them. He rose, but hesitated on his way out the door. “Oh, and that reminds me. One of you needs to learn how to pick a damn lock.” Then, he was gone.

“Wait, what?” Jones said.

“I just said that,” Weisman grumbled.

Eames grabbed the envelope and flipped it open. A woman’s face stared up at them. “Mallorie Trosseau,” he read. “Professor of Psychology and Mental Health at Columbia University. Claims to have developed technology that allows shared dreaming.” He glanced up at the others. “Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?”

“Nobody else is supposed to know how to do it,” Michaels said.

Eames read on. “Task: Identify information regarding shared dreaming, and if necessary, remove it.” He stared. “ _’Remove’_ it? What the hell does that mean?”

They all glanced at each other uneasily.

“I’m not cut out for this shit,” Jones moaned.

~+~+~

They spent months planning and preparing.

Each morning, Kim brought them more information about Mallorie Trosseau. Born in France, May, 1974, attended art school in Paris, emigrated to America fifteen years ago, obtained her Doctorate from Harvard.

Jones set up a corner of their workroom for himself and filled his tables with test tubes and pipettes.

“I don’t wanna know,” Sanchez declared when Jones first arrived with boxes of equipment.

The rest of them tried to figure out how to get into Mallorie Trosseau’s head—and how to _remove_ information from it.

Levine came every afternoon to check on their progress. He offered no suggestions as the days passed and they were no further along. He just nodded and walked away.

~+~+~

Over time, Kim’s information got more unsettling in its specificity. Prefers to go by “Mal,” dated Richard Hovasse while in college in Paris, had a miscarriage in her early thirties, currently seeing Dominic Cobb, college drop-out from Massachusetts.

Eames and the others pored over the dossiers Kim left with them, trying to distance themselves from the discomfort of reading her private emails, texts, and transcripts of her phone calls.

Michaels tapped his pen on the stack of papers in his lap. “It says here her best friend is Genevieve Lawrence. Is there any way we can bring her in?”

Sanchez laughed. “Yeah, we’ll just grab her off the street, say, ‘Honey, you’re going to dream about your best friend, but we’ll be there too,’ and expect everything to go perfectly.”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” Michaels said without heat. “I just think Trosseau would be more open to revealing her deepest darkest secrets to someone she knew, instead of us running around houses looking for secret safes.”

“Sanchez is right,” Kim said, entering the room with more stacks of paper. “We can’t bring in a civilian.”

“Sorry,” Weisman said. “It was good while it lasted.”

“Hang on,” said Eames, “we can’t drop it that fast. That was the first good idea we’ve had.”

“How do you expect to get this Genevieve to cooperate?” Michaels asked.

Eames shrugged. “Can’t we just make our own?” he suggested, half-jokingly.

Everyone stopped and looked at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Eames,” Levine said from behind him. “A word.”

Eames glared at the others as he rose from his chair.

Levine led him into an adjoining room and closed the door. “Sit,” he said. “What’s this about creating?”

Eames explained.

Levine frowned slightly. “You can’t bring a civilian in.”

Eames sighed. “I know. That’s when I suggested we make one of our own.”

“Make one?” Levine echoed.

Eames shrugged. “You can make anything else in a dream,” he said. “Why can’t we make people too?”

“Like projections,” said Levine.

“But a projection you have full control over,” Eames clarified. “So that we would know what Trosseau tells it.”

Levine pursed his lips. “Try it,” he said, standing. “Let me know.”

~+~+~

They all tried to make a Genevieve. After a while, they adjusted their goals and tried to just make a person. After that, they wondered if it was possible at all.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Eames said when they woke up again.

“It does to me,” Michaels said. “Dreams are strange things. We’re better off not meddling with them.”

“We’re already meddling with them,” Weisman said.

“We can change things in a dream,” Eames said slowly.

“But we can’t make autonomous people,” Kim finished.

“No,” Eames said. “We can change things in a dream, so what if we change ourselves instead?”

The others stared at him blankly.

“What if we change ourselves to look like Genevieve?” he clarified.

“You’d have to do more than look like her,” Kim said. “You would have to act like her, speak like her. A single mistake and Trosseau will notice.”

“You’ll be a woman!” Sanchez cackled.

“That sounds complicated,” Weisman said.

“What part of this isn’t?” Michaels said. He patted Eames on the shoulder. “Okay, we’ll try it. But after this, we’re done. We go back to the drawing board.”

“Alright,” Eames said.

~+~+~

They went under again, all of them.

“How should we do this?” Kim asked.

Eames shrugged. “Imagine we look like Genevieve? I have no idea.”

They all stood in silence for a few moments.

“Nope,” Jones said. “Not working.”

“Sorry, Eames.” Weisman patted his shoulder. “It sounded nice on paper.”

“No, wait, let me just—” Eames exhaled roughly. “Let me try it one more time, yeah?”

Kim shrugged. “Go until the timer runs out if you want to.”

Eames thought of something. “Any of you lot have a mirror?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Kim asked

Eames sighed and dreamt himself one.

“Making yourself pretty?” Sanchez asked.

Eames stared at his reflection in the mirror and tried to think about women. Genevieve had long, dark hair. He tried to focus on that, but then, somehow, his thoughts drifted to his mother, how her dusty blonde hair would get matted from the amount of time she spent in sitting in front of the television, how it had shimmered the few times Eames had seen her showered and dressed up for a social event. He thought of that dress she had worn, which hugged her in all the right places, and the black heels she had polished for hours the night before.

“Holy shit, Eames,” Jones said.

Eames glanced back down at the mirror. His mother stared back.

~+~+~

They told Levine when he came to check on them the next day.

Levine stared for a long moment then left without a word.

“What crawled up his ass and died?” Weisman muttered.

~+~+~

The next day, Levine brought a pad of paper and seated himself at the table. “Talk to me,” he said.

They all looked at each other.

“Eames made himself look like someone else,” Jones said.

Levine turned to Eames. “How did you do it?”

Eames shrugged. “I don’t know. I was thinking about my, erm, my mother, and it just happened.”

Levine stared at him before turning back to the others. “Anyone else manage it?”

They shook their heads.

Levine sighed and nodded. “Perfect it,” he told Eames as he stood and left.

“That man’s gotta learn how to say a proper goodbye,” Sanchez muttered after he was gone.

Eames stared blankly at the table top. “How do I perfect it?” he asked.

“Sucks to be you,” Weisman said.

~+~+~

Levine resumed their individual training later that week. Mornings were spent planning their mission for Trosseau; in the afternoons, one by one, Levine pulled them away from their work to drill them endlessly.

“Fucking Penrose,” Michaels mumbled one afternoon.

“Fucking Somnacin,” Jones responded.

“Somna-what?” Sanchez asked.

“Somnacin. It’s what they’re calling the drug they give us.”

Kim smirked. “How cute.”

“How do I become someone else?” Eames asked

“Eames.” Weisman leaned into his space. “You’re the only one who’s managed to do it. Why are you asking us?”

Eames groaned. “Levine’s ready to kill me.”

“You haven’t done it again?” Jones asked.

Eames shook his head.

Michaels whistled lowly. “Nice knowing you,” he said.

Eames grimaced. “Thanks.”

~+~+~

Arthur had Eames pinned against a wall, hand wrapped around his throat. “I hate you,” Arthur growled, fingers tightening.

Eames tried to wrap a hand around the wrist, to break out of the hold like he’d been trained, like he’d done a million times before, but that dizziness from Arthur’s touch was clouding his brain, and against his will, his body was melting, succumbing to Arthur’s touch.

“How fucking weak you make me,” Arthur snarled. “You fucking—”

The gunshot sounded more like an explosion, and Arthur slumped to the ground, dead.

Levine was standing in the middle of the room, arm still outstretched, gun in hand.

“Okay,” he said to Eames when they woke up. “You need to start dealing with that better.”

~+~+~

“Sorry ‘bout the wait again,” the man at the pharmacy said that week as he pushed the small bottle of pills across the counter.

Eames grabbed it and frowned. “Are they all in here?”

The man shook his head. “Sorry. Government fucked up again. Those are all I got in stock.”

Eames nodded. “Well, thanks, then.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levine peered through a crack in the worn, aging blinds. “I think we’re good,” he said softly.

Levine peered through a crack in the worn, aging blinds. “I think we’re good,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Eames said, collapsing on the couch in the middle of the room. “Okay. How do we connect with the others?”

Levine joined Eames on the couch, silently moving across the room. “We don’t,” he said, jaw tight. “We just hope they’re at headquarters when we get back.”

“Ah,” Eames said. “And how long until we get back to headquarters?”

Levine sighed. “As long as it takes.”

Eames tried not to think about the four pills left in the small orange bottle tucked away inside his bag.

He would be fine.

~+~+~

Their mission involving Mallorie Trosseau did not go according to plan.

~+~+~

They followed her. She was on tour, advertising her new book about lucid dreaming. They crept into her room at night, sedated her, and went under.

The instant they arrived, her projections stared at them suspiciously, warily.

“Hi,” Jones said quietly to a young girl watching them with large, round eyes.

The girl smiled cherubically, then snarled and leapt at Jones, fingers curled like claws. The other projections followed suit.

Eames could barely dream himself a gun fast enough. In the melee, he thought he caught a glimpse of bright blue eyes. He emptied an entire clip in that direction, just to be safe.

~+~+~

In the end, Eames never got to use his fake Genevieve. They were all killed before they could even _begin_ to investigate Trosseau’s mind.

Levine was there when they woke up.

“What—” he started to say, but then his eyes darted over to the side, where Trosseau was beginning to stir.

“Shit,” Kim said succinctly.

“Wha?” Sanchez mumbled.

“Move,” Levine ordered in a harsh whisper. _”Now.”_

They did. Michaels grabbed their bags. Jones grabbed the dream device—a PAS-something, he said it was called. Eames led them out the door, with Kim and Levine watching their backs.

They made it to the stairs before someone started shooting at them.

“Fuck!” Eames heard one of the men yell.

Michaels dug his gun out of the bottom of his rucksack and returned fire with deadly aim. They all crouched in silence for a precious second.

“Go,” Levine said.

They ran. Down the stairs, to the door, to the street, to the van they had used to get there. They were almost clear, too, Eames could almost _touch_ it, but then a shot rang out. And another.

Eames heard a strange _glurp,_ and then somebody shouted, “Sanchez!” Eames turned to look back, but Levine was there, blocking him, pushing him, saying, “Keep moving, do you hear me? Get to cover!” and they dove into the van. The bullets kept ringing out, one after another. The others ducked into a nearby alleyway.

Levine heard the sirens first. The police cruiser came barreling down the street and came to a stop directly in front of their van. Levine leapt into action and floored the gas, not even flinching as the officer fired directly at the windshield. The man darted to the side at the last minute, and Levine sped down the road.

“But—” Eames started.

“We’ll go back for them,” Levine said. “I swear. But we’re no good to them now.”

~+~+~

They weren’t able to go back for them. They were followed by five cars, with varying types of assault rifles, and it wasn’t until darkness fell that they managed to get away. Levine found the abandoned home and picked the lock with a flick of his wrist.

“I think we’re good,” he told Eames when he got back from abandoning the van somewhere else.

Eames thought he wouldn’t be good until they were back at Headquarters. Eames thought that Sanchez had been hurt, badly. Eames thought—

“What happened down there?” Levine asked.

Eames blinked. “She knew we were there. We didn’t stand a chance.”

Levine watched him quietly, then stood. “I’ll try to contact Headquarters, see what they can do.”

Eames nodded vaguely. Jones was right. They weren’t cut out for this shit.

~+~+~

He heard Levine’s raised voice from down the hall.

“What do you mean, _five days_ , sir? I’m telling you that we are highly compromised and need extract _now,_ and you’re telling me—Yes sir, I am aware, but I have four other soldiers trapped in an alleyway, and—Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I understand _perfectly,_ sir.”

 _Five days._ Eames thought of his pill bottle, mostly empty.

~+~+~

Levine left hours later and returned with food. Eames didn’t know where he got it. Eames didn’t want to know. He ate numbly, chewing by rote, and wondered what had happened to the others.

~+~+~

The morning he took his last pill, he wondered what was going to happen to him. Levine had been in communication with someone every day, in vain.

“Are you _fucking_ serious?” he bellowed. Eames stared at his now-empty pill bottle and clutched it in his hand. “Two more days? What the fuck kind of shitshow is this, exactly? This is completely un-fucking-acceptable!”

When Levine reemerged from the room, he flatly told Eames, “No help for at least two more days,” as if Eames hadn’t been able to hear the whole conversation from the start.

~+~+~

Eames’ chest felt strange when he woke up the next morning. He tried to breathe regularly and deeply and ignored the rising panic.

By noon, the painful tugging had returned, and it was only growing worse with each passing hour. Eames took to rubbing his chest endlessly, in some sorry effort to stop it.

Levine left for more supplies after they finished the last of their food during lunch.

Eames curled up on the couch to wait for his return. The pain grew, worsened, spread, _spiked._

The next thing he realized, hands were on him, gentle, careful, wrong.

“Eames?” a voice said, softly, then more forcefully. “Eames!”

“Arthur,” Eames gasped out. “Arthur. Make it stop, please, _God,_ make it stop.”

Fingers slowly pried the empty bottle from his fingers. “Oh, Eames,” the voice said quietly.

Then a warmth was engulfing him, and even though it wasn’t the right warmth, Eames curled into it and sobbed, dry, heaving gasps, as it felt like his chest was being ripped apart.

“Shh, it’s okay,” the voice said. “It’s okay. I’m right here, Eames. It’s gonna be okay.”

A hand wrapped around his, and Eames clung to it, squeezed it so tightly it had to hurt, but the warmth stayed, and the voice kept whispering, “I’m right here, Eames. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

~+~+~

Eames woke up in a stark, white room.

“’m I dead?” he mumbled.

“No, but you certainly gave it your best shot,” a warm voice said. Eames focused his eyes on a worn, smiling face.

“Who’re you?” he asked.

“Your doctor,” the woman said as she took his pulse. “And if it had been a day longer, you probably would have died. Most would have.”

Eames blinked fuzzily. “What?”

She smiled gently. “Get some rest. Your friends will come visit you later.”

Eames let his eyes slip shut.

~+~+~

When he next woke up, Michaels, Jones, Weisman, and Kim were gathered at the foot of his bed.

“Hi,” he managed.

“Thank fuck,” Weisman said.

Eames squinted. “You guys’re okay?”

“Michaels and Kim got us out,” Jones said. “We holed up in a cellar for a few days then hitchhiked back to base. Well, close to base. Then we walked.”

“Oh.” Eames tried to focus on their faces. “Sanchez?” he asked.

They looked at each other. “Sanchez,” Michaels began, then stopped. “He’s gone, Eames. I’m sorry.”

Eames stared.

“Fucking dreamshare,” Jones said.

“Not so fucking loud,” Weisman growled.

“What?” Eames asked.

Kim watched him sadly. “Jones and Weisman carried him into the alley,” she said. “He said—” She turned away.

“‘It’s all good, brother,’” Michaels quoted. “‘See you topside.’ He thought it was a fucking dream.”

“Fucking dreamshare,” Jones said again, softer.

“Fuck,” Eames said.

“Yeah,” Weisman said.

They stayed until exhaustion took him under again.

~+~+~

“Levine?” Eames asked later that week, when he was more recovered.

Michaels shook his head. “Haven’t seen him. They said he brought you in, though. Demanded that you be taken care of right away.”

Eames processed that. “Where is he?” he asked.

“I don’t know, bud,” Michaels said. “I’m sorry.”

~+~+~

“We need to figure this out,” Jones said another day, perched on the side of Eames’ bed. “Dream versus reality.”

“We’ll let Eames catch up on his beauty sleep first,” Kim said. “He needs it.”

~+~+~

A man came into Eames’ room when the others were visiting.

“Soldiers,” the man said. “I’m your new Commanding Officer, Staff Sergeant Brooks.”

“Where’s Levine?” Jones asked.

“On a leave of absence,” Brooks answered without blinking.

They let his answer sit in silence for a long moment.

“Right,” Weisman said slowly.

“Once you have all recovered,” Brooks said, glancing at Eames, “you are expected to return to your active duties.”

“Like what?” Michaels asked. “Levine was still training us.”

“You will continue experimenting in your fields individually,” Brooks said, “while operating other field assignments.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Kim said.

Brooks nodded. “Right,” he said. “I’ll leave you for now.”

“Fuck that,” Weisman said once Brooks was gone. “We need to get out of here.”

~+~+~

They planned for weeks, just as rigorously as they planned for the Trosseau mission. It took time, but they learned the guard shifts, the weak points in security, the best places nearby to seek shelter or find public transportation.

“We’re all okay with this?” Michaels asked them for the umpteenth time.

“We better be,” Weisman said. “We’re doing it tomorrow.”

Eames stretched out his limbs still stiff from weeks spent in bed. “Ready,” he said.

Michaels nodded. “Tomorrow night, then.”

~+~+~

They each had their own route to take. Eames slipped out of his bunk five hours after curfew and quickly dressed in the dark. On his way out, he passed the lab that Levine had first met them in, and on an impulse, he darted inside and grabbed the first silver briefcase he saw.

Then he slipped outside, past the guards, past the gates, and into the cool night air.

~+~+~

They had a rendezvous in Paris one month later. Everyone made it. They went out for drinks to celebrate.

“To Sanchez,” Jones said, raising his glass.

“Sanchez,” the others chorused.

“He’s probably laughing his ass off at us right now,” Weisman commented.

Jones glanced at Eames. “Are you doing okay?” he asked. “With your…you know?”

Eames arched a brow. “Yeah,” he said shortly. “I’ve found people.”

“Anyone will do anything if you give them enough money,” Michaels said.

Eames smirked. “Lucky for me.”

“Yeah, but where are you getting the money?” Jones asked.

Eames smiled. “I have my ways.”

“Picking pockets,” Kim said.

“Forging documents, actually,” Eames said. “I used to copy everyone’s handwriting back in school. Didn’t take much to go further.”

Weisman laughed. “Glad to see your education paid off.”

Eames flipped him off.

“I heard from someone,” Michaels said, “about a job. Dreamshare is on the black market, it’s the new big thing. Running money is 50k.”

Weisman whistled.

“We could rule it,” Michaels said. “Dominate the field. Be the best team out there, make millions.”

“And you thought I was doing illegal work,” Eames said.

Michaels rolled his eyes. “You guys in?” he asked.

Weisman knocked back his drink. “Why not,” he said.

Jones shrugged. “Better than what I had in mind.”

Kim smirked. “Looking forward to it.”

They all turned to Eames. He thought, for a minute, about Arthur, about his mother. Then, he plastered a small smile on his face. “Let’s do it,” he said.

~+~+~

Their first job was laughably easy compared to the drills Levine had put them through. One week later, they parted ways, each with a wad of cash hidden on them.

In a short amount of time, they gained a reputation in the dreamshare community, and the jobs came pouring in. Jones suggested they fill a bathtub with all their money, like in the movies. Michaels hit him on the back of the head.

Sometimes people tried to double-cross them. They never succeeded.

As time passed, they decided it would be a good idea for them all to branch out, to start taking jobs independent of one another. Eames flitted around the world, taking any job that caught his attention. At the same time, he made connections in the underground, with people who could get him the Suppressants he needed without asking questions. It was a good balance, a thrilling life.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

~+~+~

He took the job in Cairo on a lark, because he had nothing better to do. The extractor was none other than Mallorie Trossesau, with her squinty-eyed husband, Dom Cobb. Seeing her in person, Eames realized how foolish they had all been. She was as beautiful and deadly as a tsunami.

“Charmed,” Eames said as he kissed the back of her hand.

“I’m sure,” she replied with a smirk.

“And this is our point,” Dom said. “Arthur.”

Eames startled at the name, then froze as he saw the man’s face.

“Eames,” Levine said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levine stopped by Eames’ desk the morning of the job. “We should talk,” he said, looking down at the floor.
> 
> Eames frowned. “After, yeah?”
> 
> Levine’s face clouded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “After.”

Eames never should have taken the job. He doesn’t know which is worse—talking to Mallorie-call-me-Mal- _mon-cher_ or _not_ talking to Levine.

Mal perched herself on the edge of Eames’ desk the first morning with a thin smile. “So, Mister,” she started, pausing significantly.

“Just Eames will do,” Eames said, smiling.

“Eames,” Mal said. “How did you get involved in dreamshare?”

Eames leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his chest. “Oh, who can turn down that kind of money, hm?”

Mal chuckled softly, her eyes carefully assessing him. “Indeed, Eames.” She stood and ran a hand over her skirt. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

Eames watched her walk away and wondered if this was like that story about the toad being slowly boiled to death, too entrenched to realize what was happening until it was too late.

Levine walked past and dropped a manila envelope on Eames’ desk. “About the mark,” he said briskly.

“Thank you, s—” Eames stopped, then chuckled roughly to cover the pause.

Levine’s eyes darted between the folder and Eames’ face. “Yeah,” he said and walked away.

~+~+~

Eames knew a man in Cairo. They met behind a run-down store, in a back alley, and Eames tucked the crumpled bag into his pocket as his man quickly counted the folded bills Eames had handed him.

“We good?” Eames asked. 

The man grumbled and strolled away, whistling.

Eames waited a few moments and walked out of the alley.

“You should be careful,” a voice said right behind him.

Eames whirled around. Levine was leaning against the brick façade of the building at the mouth of the alley, hands tucked in his pockets, mouth pressed into a thin line.

Eames scowled. In his own pocket, his hand clamped around his bag of newly acquired pills. “I can handle it.”

“No, Eames.” Levine straightened, stepped away from the wall. “Be careful about who you get those from. There’s plenty of crooks who cook up a pile of horseshit and sell it to desperate people.”

“I can handle it,” Eames repeated, jaw clenched.

Levine watched him for a moment, dark eyes glimmering. “Right,” he said. “See you back at the place.”

As he started away, Eames called after him. “Where did you go?” Eames asked. “After.”

Levine froze. The crowds on the sidewalk parted, walking around him and Eames and leaving them in a small pocket of space. “Out,” he said. “Couldn’t stand the bureaucracy’s bullshit anymore.”

“So you ditched us?” Eames stepped forward. “Left us with a different C.O., thought we’d be fine on our own.”

“Eames,” Levine started, turning back around.

“Sanchez is dead,” Eames bit out. Levine flinched. “In case you cared.”

“I didn’t,” Levine whispered, then cleared his throat. “I didn’t know.”

Eames almost wanted laugh at that. “Fuck you,” he muttered. He stopped himself from saying anything more. He stalked away, melting into the masses, and didn’t look back.

~+~+~

Dom liked to have “group brainstorming sessions” to get their creative juices flowing. Eames thought that watching paint dry would be more likely to keep him awake.

“What’s the best way to go about this?” Dom asked.

Mal inspected her nails. “Sneaking into a mark’s room at night seems to be the popular style lately,” she said.

Eames glanced at Levine before he could stop himself. Levine was staring intently at his notebook. The room was silent for a moment.

Levine shifted in his chair. “He goes to the salon every Thursday afternoon.”

“That could work,” Dom said. 

Mal hummed in agreement.

~+~+~

Sometimes, rarely, Eames dreamed. They were blurred, foggy things, almost like memories. Gentle hand stroking his face. Warm body cocooning him. Whispered words. _It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here, Eames. You’re gonna be okay._

~+~+~

Levine stopped by Eames’ desk the morning of the job. “We should talk,” he said, looking down at the floor.

Eames frowned. “After, yeah?”

Levine’s face clouded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “After.”

~+~+~

Eames’ one task during the job was to keep the projections distracted and stop any who got too close to Dom and Mal. He wandered through the halls of the salon Dom had created, glancing in some of the rooms.

At the end of the hall, he spotted a familiar dark head lounging on the bed, with Levine standing next to him, massaging his back. Instinctively, immediately, Eames stepped into the room, then hesitated just inside the door.

Levine glanced up at him and shook his head quickly, harshly.

Eames knew he should leave, but his eyes were fixated on the dark head on the bed in front of him.

“Oh, that feels nice,” Arthur murmured.

“Too many hours in the office?” Levine asked.

Arthur laughed. “Yeah. Always the way, isn’t it?”

Levine hummed in answer as he glared pointedly at Eames, wordlessly telling him to go.

“Is it time for me to turn over yet?” Arthur asked.

“Not quite,” Levine said, still glaring at Eames.

Eames unsteadily stepped back, and the floorboards creaked.

Levine froze.

“Who’s that?” Arthur asked. He pushed himself up and blinked vaguely at Eames. His eyes narrowed.

Eames’s breath caught in his chest.

Arthur rose from the bed.

“Sir,” Levine said, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, “if you could lay back down? We’re not quite finished yet.”

“No, we’re not,” Arthur growled, pushing Levine’s hand away. He started towards Eames, snarling like a feral animal.

Eames’s limbs were frozen. He watched Arthur approach in a daze.

Levine swore and pulled a gun from _somewhere_ and shot Arthur in the back of the head.

Eames took his first deep breath in minutes.

“Come on,” Levine said harshly, grabbing Eames by the arm. “The projections had to have noticed that.”

They had. Projections streamed into the hallway, aggressively wielding clipboards and towels.

Levine swore again. “Stay close,” he said, and started firing.

Eames dreamed himself a gun and took aim. Fucking Arthur, he thought.

~+~+~

He and Levine managed to fend off the angry projections long enough for Mal and Dom to finish their extraction, somehow.

Afterwards, Dom shook Eames’s hand and said, “You know, you’re not bad, for someone who tried to extract from my wife.”

Eames blinked.

“Yes,” Mal said, “I like you.” She leaned in and kissed his cheeks. “You are forgiven, _mon cher._ ”

Eames nodded dazedly, took his money, and left before they could change their minds. He didn’t even want to think about how they knew he was on the team.

He never should have taken the job.

~+~+~

Levine found him in a small bar in Austria, nursing a lukewarm beer.

“I don’t even want to know,” Eames said as Levine slid onto the bar stool at his side.

Levine frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Levine drummed his fingers on the bar top. “You said we could talk.”

Eames sipped his beer. “That was before Dom and Mal pulled their little stunt.”

“Don’t worry about them. They’re good people.”

“Sure,” Eames said. “It was still creepy.”

Levine hummed noncommittally.

“So.” Eames fiddled with the label on his bottle. “What did you want to talk about?”

Levine sighed. “I’m sorry about Sanchez. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Eames said.

There was a pause.

“We need to talk about your projection,” Levine said.

“Oh, do we?” Eames clenched his jaw.

“He’s your soulmate,” Levine said. “Isn’t he?”

Eames took a long sip of his beer. “What fucking business is it of yours?”

“He’s a liability,” Levine said neutrally.

Eames laughed roughly. “That’s a new one.”

“And seeing how it should have been my fucking business as your C.O.,” Levine started, but Eames cut him off.

“Yeah, well you aren’t anymore, so fuck off.”

Levine sat in silence for a moment. Eames drained his beer then stared stubbornly at the empty bottle.

“Look,” Levine said eventually, “the instant he became an issue you should have come to me and said—”

“How many times do I have to tell you to fuck off?” Eames demanded.

“He endangers you and anyone else on a job with you,” Levine said.

Eames wordlessly looked Levine in the eye.

Levine pushed himself off his stool and brushed some lint off his pants. “He’s a liability,” he said again. “And you need to deal with it. I get it if you have some weird hang-up with guys named Arthur and you don’t want to talk about it with me, but—”

Eames stood and punched Levine in the face. It felt good.

As he watched Levine pick himself up off the floor, he snarled, “I didn’t even know your fucking name until this job, so don’t pull that shit with me.”

He threw a few bills on the bar and left before he could give into the urge to punch Levine again, for good luck.

~+~+~

He met Yusuf while searching for a new local supplier. The pleasant, laid-back, dream-den owner was like a balm on Eames’ prickly soul after the shit Levine had dredged up. They spent their days testing out Yusuf’s newest compounds, both in the dream and outside of it.

Yusuf was the one who taught Eames about totems.

“You see,” he said, waving a small empty glass bottle in front of Eames’ face, “it’s something small and portable that I can keep on me at all times.”

“What happens when you sit on it?” Eames asked.

“Shut up,” Yusuf said. “It behaves differently in the dream. That’s how I know when I’m awake.”

Eames had his own method for that—he just needed to look in a mirror. But he thought of Sanchez— _it’s all good, brother. See you topside_ —and thought it wouldn’t hurt to have a backup.

~+~+~

He took whatever jobs trickled his way, some boring, others fascinating. He gained a reputation in the business and tried not to listen to Levine’s.

_If you need a job done, you call Arthur._

_Best point in the business, Arthur Levine._

He still twitched every time he heard the name “Arthur” but thanks to Yusuf, he never ran out of Suppressants, and that tightness in his chest was like a distant memory.

~+~+~

Levine found him months later.

“Using your money well, I see,” he said over Eames’ shoulder.

Eames sighed as he went all in. “What do you want?”

“I have a job for you,” Levine said, his breath tickling Eames’ ear.

Eames shrugged him away. “I’ll find you after.”

Later, pockets filled with his winnings, he found Levine sitting at the bar. “Okay,” he said, perching himself on the stool at Levine’s side. “Well?”

Levine paused. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I crossed a line, before.”

Eames nodded. “Yeah, well,” he said.

Levine cleared his throat. “Yeah.” He sipped his drink. “Inception. Ever heard of it?”

Eames shook his head.

“Instead of stealing an idea, you plant one,” Levine said.

Eames blinked. “What?”

“Any interest?” Levine asked.

“No, really,” Eames said. “What?”

Levine smiled thinly. “Payout’s upwards of five hundred grand.”

“Yeah, okay,” Eames said.

Levine smiled and pulled a thin envelope from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “See you there,” he said, pushing the envelope across the bar. He left without a backwards glance.

Inside the envelope was a ticket to Italy, with tomorrow’s date. “Bastard,” Eames muttered.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An enormous shout-out to the lovely [Sage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagemb/pseuds/sagemb) for listening to me ramble about Toxic Soulmates since Chapter 5, reading every random excerpt I sent her, and reassuring me that there can never be too much angst!

When Eames walked into the warehouse, his old team was waiting for him.

“Took you long enough,” Michaels said as he pulled him into a tight hug.

“What are you all doing here?” Eames asked.

“Heard about some new crazy job,” Jones said.

“Had your name written all over it,” Weisman finished.

They all laughed.

“And nobody can say no to Levine,” Kim said.

Weisman snorted. “Even if the son of a bitch ditched us.”

“Somehow,” Levine said from the doorway, “I doubt an apology would make it better.” He met Eames’ eye and nodded once.

“Let me guess,” Weisman drawled.

Levine’s mouth curled slightly. “Get to work.”

“Yup.” Weisman threw an arm around Jones’ shoulders. “I knew he was gonna say that,” he said in a stage whisper.

~+~+~

Preparing for Inception was both similar and completely different from a normal extraction. There was still research—piles and mountains and _years_ of paperwork that Levine and Kim sifted through day and night. And there were still test runs and intricate planning sessions, where Levine poked at every hole he saw.

But _what_ they were planning was. Well.

The Lees were enjoying twelve years of mostly happy marriage, but Mr. Lee was annoyed that Mrs. Lee was too traumatized by a childhood experience to go white-water rafting with him. He hired Levine, and the team of his choice, to make his wife lose her fear of drowning.

Eames thought it was ridiculously petty—and even if they _could_ pull it off, why would Lee willingly spend that much money on it? It’d be cheaper for him to just find a friend to go with him—but Eames couldn’t turn down _that_ kind of money. And Kim was right: nobody could say no to Levine.

So he read the research Kim and Levine brought him and interacted with the other people who had been involved in Mrs. Lee’s Traumatic Experience and worked on his ten-year-old Forge.

~+~+~

He stayed late one night, reading the diaries Levine somehow managed to track down for him. With one hand, he idly flipped a cheap, plastic poker chip over his fingers.

“It’s late,” Levine said into his ear.

Eames jumped out of his seat, hand immediately reaching for the gun in his waistband even as he registered who it was. “Fuck, Levine,” he growled, heart jackrabbiting. “Don’t fucking do that.”

Levine pursed his lips. “You don’t have to use my last name,” he said. “Honestly, I’d rather you didn’t.”

Eames stared at him. “Okay?”

“Look.” Levine sighed heavily. “There’s a reason I’m only going by one name now. You know?”

“Yeah,” Eames said.

“And the ‘sir’ thing is weird.”

“Sure.”

“So if you could just. I don’t know, stop?”

“I can’t call you by your first name,” Eames said.

They watched each other in silence.

“Well,” Levine said, “figure something out. Okay?”

Eames looked at him for a moment. “What did you want?” he asked eventually.

Levine glanced down and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Saw you were here.” He shrugged, and didn’t offer anything else.

“Right,” Eames said. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. “See you tomorrow.”

He was out of the warehouse before he could even pull his coat on.

~+~+~

“Eames,” Levine said the next morning, “you’re going under with me. Test run.”

Eames knew why they were going under. He inserted the needle with surprisingly steady hands.

“Ten minutes,” Levine said, even though nobody else was paying attention.

Eames took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was standing in an empty apartment. Levine was slowly pacing around the perimeter of the room.

“I can’t control when he shows up,” Eames said. His voice echoed slightly in the open room.

Levine turned towards him. “No,” he said. “He manages that well enough on his own.”

Eames gnawed on his lip. “So what are we doing?”

Levine shrugged and resumed his pacing. “Waiting for him to arrive.”

Eames reached behind himself and drew the gun he knew would be there, tucked in his waistband. “What’s in it for you?” he asked as he checked the gun by habit.

Levine sighed. “I know I’ve been an ass,” he said, “but this really is a liability. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Eames scoffed. “You mean you don’t want your own ass to get shot.”

Levine looked at him strangely but kept walking.

Something hit the door with a thud. As Eames watched, the knob rattled. He raised his gun.

“Eames,” Levine said, “shoot him the minute he walks in. Don’t think about it.”

“Shut up,” Eames said. His hands were shaking.

The door bowed as something slammed against it from the outside. Eames flicked off the safety.

“Eames,” Levine said.

“Shut the fuck up.”

In a mess of splinters, the door exploded. Arthur stepped into the room, fuming. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room and immediately focused on Eames.

Eames’ finger curled around the trigger.

“Eames,” Levine said again.

“Eames.” Arthur spat the word like a curse. He stalked into the room, teeth bared in a snarl.

Eames watched him come closer and closer and closer and. He couldn’t make his finger move, couldn’t make it tighten that extra inch.

 _”Eames,”_ Levine said.

Eames’ arms trembled and he lowered the gun. Arthur stopped only inches away from him and laughed.

“Knew it,” he said. “You always were such a coward, Eames.” He took another step. “Didn’t finish school. Never said no to me. Never said a single _fucking_ thing about the women and the lipstick and the perfume.” He took another step.

Eames inhaled sharply, raised his gun, and fired three shots. It was satisfying to see Arthur’s face as he fell to the floor.

For a moment, the only noise in the room was the sound of Eames’ unsteady breaths.

“Good,” Levine said quietly. “Next time, do it faster.”

Eames turned to stare at him.

Levine glanced away. “Sorry.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “You did good.”

~+~+~

They went under three more times that afternoon. Each time, it was just a little easier for Eames to pull the trigger.

The third time they woke up, the others were packing to leave.

“See you,” Jones called from the door.

Levine raised a hand in acknowledgement.

After the others said their goodbyes, he turned to Eames. “I could go for a drink.”

~+~+~

Levine grabbed them a booth in the back corner, where they could see both exits. Eames wondered what kind of person he was for caring about that kind of thing. And for appreciating it in someone else.

“You’re doing good,” Levine said, sipping his drink. “Really.”

Eames slouched down in the booth and rolled his glass between his hands.

They sat in silence.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Levine asked when they were on their second round.

Eames threw back his drink. “No.”

Levine nodded slowly. “If you want to—”

“I said I didn’t.”

“—I wouldn’t mind listening.”

“So you can get some good workplace gossip?” Eames stared at the condensation on his glass.

“What?” Levine shifted in his seat. “Eames, please.”

Eames didn’t say anything.

Levine sighed softly. “I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence again.

Then, Levine inhaled deeply. “After the mission,” he started, so softly Eames could barely hear him, “when they wouldn’t send any help, I just. And then you had your…And I was just...” He drank. “You were in my arms,” he breathed, “and I thought you were dying. And you kept screaming my name.”

Eames couldn’t breathe. Gentle hand stroking his face. Warm body cocooning him. Whispered words. _It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here, Eames. You’re gonna be okay._

It hadn’t been a dream.

“And I couldn’t do anything.” Levine knocked back what was left his drink. “You were dying in my arms, and I was just…sitting there. Doing nothing.”

“Wasn’t your name,” Eames managed.

Levine huffed. “I know that now. But I didn’t then.” He traced patterns on the worn tabletop with his finger. “And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Eames blinked. “What?”

Levine turned to him and smiled faintly. “I liked you,” he said. “A lot. But then the pills and my name and…” He shook his head. “I knew it was either some awful coincidence that your soulmate had the same name as me,” he said, “or you knew it was me, and I actually comforted you, and…” 

He sighed loudly and slouched in his seat, mirroring Eames’ posture.

“I don’t like _not_ knowing things,” he said eventually. “And when I’m uncomfortable, I’m an ass. So I’m sorry.”

Eames thought he could do with another drink. “So what changed?” he asked.

“That night in the bar,” Levine said. “You said you hadn’t known my name until the job, so that answered that.”

Eames parsed that. “You’re crazy,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. By that logic, I never had any feelings for you, ever.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re happy about that?”

Levine sighed. “I’m happy when I have all the answers,” he said.

 _But you don’t,_ Eames wanted to say, even though that didn’t really make any sense. He took a deep breath, pulled out his wallet, and threw a few bills on the table.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he muttered, shrugging on his coat.

He could feel Levine’s eyes on him all the way out the door.

~+~+~

They spent months planning the inception—how deep they should go, what they should plant. Levine thought they needed to plant the entire idea in Mrs. Lee’s head— _don’t be afraid of free fall_ —but Eames and Michaels argued they needed to start small and let Mrs. Lee’s own subconscious do the rest.

They wasted weeks on that.

And at least once a day, Levine would make Eames go under with him, and he would shoot Arthur in the face.

“Thanks,” Eames said one day, with Arthur’s body slumped on the floor.

“For what?” Levine asked.

Eames shrugged. “For not trying to be a shrink.”

Levine smiled faintly. “My solution’s always been to just shoot my problems.”

Eames chuckled. “Works well.”

“Yeah, only in dreamspace, really.”

Eames blinked and then he was staring at the ceiling of the warehouse. Levine stood. “Nice work,” he said and went to check on Michael’s architecture.

Eames watched him cross the warehouse, thinking.

~+~+~

The morning of the job, everyone was on edge. Michaels cleaned all his guns, then disassembled them and started over again. Weisman smoked half a pack of cigarettes. Kim walked around the warehouse sporadically kicking out at the air mid-stride. Jones laughed hysterically at everything.

Eames just watched.

“Ready?” Levine asked. 

“Nope,” Weisman said, standing. “Let’s do this.”

~+~+~

Mrs. Lee went to therapy every Tuesday afternoon. They paid off the therapist and drugged Mrs. Lee and went under.

It was all a bit of a blur to Eames. They were in the therapist’s office, and he was asking Mrs. Lee about her childhood, and then she was unconscious again, and they were hooking themselves up. Levine nodded at Eames and pushed the button, and then they were going down again, into Eames’ level of the dream.

Eames had argued extensively with Levine about it.

“The deeper we go, the more likely he’s going to show up,” he’d said.

“And you’ll shoot him,” Levine had responded. “Just like you have been.”

They were standing on the banks of a river that turned into a waterfall. A young Mrs. Lee was playing with her friends. 

She was going to fall under, just like she had in her childhood, and be swept away, but she would land safely at the bottom of the waterfall and laugh joyously, thinking it was better than any carnival ride.

That was the plan.

Eames’ job was to remember the fine details of the riverbed, and to control the speed of the water.

He could do it, no problem.

The others had spread out around the river, to make sure everything went smoothly.

A twig snapped somewhere behind Eames, and he spun around, gun already drawn, but Arthur was expecting him. He grabbed the gun and wrenched it to the side just as Eames pulled the trigger and—

The sound of rushing water was drowned out by the girls’ screams.

Eames hit Arthur in the face with a left hook and pulled his feet out from under him. As he raised a fist to knock him out, Arthur placed a hand on his hip, fingers sliding underneath the hem of Eames’ shirt.

Eames shuddered as that sickly-sweet sensation rolled through him, so strong it almost _hurt_ to feel his muscles turn to jelly.

“That’s it,” Arthur murmured, eyes sharp. 

Someone was calling his name. Eames could barely hear it over the roaring in his own ears.

“Don’t you miss me?” Arthur asked. His eyes gleamed.

Eames slowly tilted his head to one side. Was that screaming?

Arthur rubbed Eames’ back under his shirt, the motion slow and sensual. Eames shook his head roughly, trying to remember…something.

“Eames!” A hand landed on his shoulder and pushed him away. As Eames hit the ground, Jones put a bullet between Arthur’s eyes.

“Jones?” Eames said.

“Get the girls!” Jones shouted. “Hurry!”

Eames turned and spotted them being pulled down the river in thick, foamy rapids. They were just about to reach the edge of the waterfall. _”Shit.”_ He ran as fast as he could.

~+~+~

When Levine found him, sitting in the dark in a far corner of the warehouse, Eames couldn’t even bring himself to be surprised.

Levine approached him steadily. “It wasn’t your fault, Eames,” he said. “It was an unrealistic job anyway, and I’m the one who put you in charge of that level, so—”

“Arthur,” Eames breathed, then stopped.

Levine shifted, a hint of light outside the window catching in his eye. The air between them was filled with all the things they refused to say.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Levine finally repeated. He shuffled his feet, then turned and left.

Eames sat in the darkness, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to mention this, but I have a Tumblr account with the same username. Come say hi! I will be more than happy to ramble at you and spam you with excerpts from what I'm writing!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [cheps](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cheps/pseuds/cheps) for helping me with my performance anxiety and assuring me this chapter was fit for public consumption.
> 
> And shout-out to the lovely [Sage](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sagemb/pseuds/sagemb) for coming up with the universe and spreadsheets line.

He took easy jobs after that. Whispers ran through the dreamshare community about the attempted inception, but they faded away over time.

“You want to talk about it?” Yusuf asked the first night Eames returned from the job.

Eames blinked and looked down at the tabletop. He deliberately unclenched his hands. “No.”

Yusuf grunted. “Thank god.” He stood and picked up his cat, cradling her against his chest. “I ran out of sedatives last week.”

That made Eames want to laugh, and he was surprised that he actually could.

~+~+~

Eames was helping Yusuf in the store one morning when the bell over the door chimed.

“Good morning,” Yusuf called, smiling broadly.

“Morning.”

Eames looked up so quickly he was surprised his neck didn’t snap. It was Levine, except it wasn’t. This Levine was wearing worn, faded blue jeans and a thin cotton shirt. This Levine had soft, wavy hair that was kept out of his eyes only by his glasses. Eames stared. _Glasses._

“What can I do for you?” Yusuf asked.

Levine smiled. “I need to talk to Eames, actually.”

Yusuf nodded. “Of course.” He left the room without complaint. Eames knew he would be grilled the moment Levine left the store.

“What is it?” Eames asked, sorting the bags of herbs in front of him.

Levine approached the counter. “I have a job offer.”

Eames glanced at him then back down at the herbs.

“You’re good at what you do,” Levine said. “That last job was my fault, not yours.”

Eames grunted.

“You’re the best Forger around.”

Eames shrugged. He was the only Forger.

Levine breathed deeply. “And I trust you to watch my back.”

Eames glanced up at him.

Levine met his stare and smiled. “I don’t say that enough, but it’s true.” He spread his hands. “It’s your decision Eames,” he said, backing out of the store. “But I’d like if you said yes.”

The bells chimed again as he left.

Yusuf appeared from the back room immediately. “Who was that?”

Eames turned away. “We did a job together.”

“Must’ve made a good impression.” Yusuf sidled around the other side of the counter and crouched down until Eames was forced to meet his eyes. “Eames?”

“What?” Eames moved, grabbing glass jars and shelving them.

“‘I trust you to watch my back,’” Yusuf quoted. “Something tells me he’s not the type that says that.”

“Oh yeah?” Eames grabbed another handful of jars. “Maybe because he said that to me, right after the ‘watch my back’ comment.”

Yusuf scoffed. “Your actions say one thing, your eyes another.” He waggled his finger at Eames.

Eames stared at him. “What are you on right now?” he demanded.

Yusuf smirked and retreated to the back room again.

~+~+~

Even though he was supposedly the “best” point man in the business, Levine was pretty easy to find. Eames tracked him to a little hole-in-the-wall store, where he was perusing the overpriced Genuine Artifacts that were, admittedly, made from very realistic plastic.

“Say I take this job,” Eames said without preamble, sidling up to Levine in the narrow space between shelves.

Levine grunted.

“What’s in it for you?”

Levine glanced at him and a smile flickered across his face. “A lot.”

“Yeah?” Eames plucked a small cat sculpture off the shelf and glanced at the price. He quickly put it back down.

Levine grunted. “So?” He turned to fully face Eames. “You in?”

Eames hesitated. “You haven’t even told me what the job is.”

Levine shrugged.

Eames sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Why not?”

As Levine pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket, Eames rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, ripping the envelope from Levine’s hands. “You could at least be less of an ass about it.”

Levine smirked. “See you in two weeks.”

~+~+~

Levine had lied. The job could have used a Forger, sure, but it could have been done without one. And so far, Eames could not figure out any way that Levine benefited from his presence. He drifted off during team meetings, he was always late in the morning—based on Levine’s standards, at least—and he kept replacing Levine’s ideas with new ones. Better ones, of course, but still, it made more work for Levine in the long run.

Their chemist was a young, doe-eyed waif who had the unfortunate habit of gnawing on the ends of her own hair. She stared at Eames, wide-eyed, the first time she heard him talk.

“You’re an Englishman,” she said.

Eames smiled. “Indeed I am.”

“Do you use those pet names?” She gasped excitedly. “Could you call me ‘My Lady’ from now on? I’ve always wanted to have an Englishman call me that.”

Eames agreed because why-the-hell-not, and because she had actually given him a very good idea.

~+~+~

The look on Levine’s face was comical the first time Eames did it.

The second time was just as amusing.

By the fifth, it looked like Levine was ready to kill him.

By the tenth, he just sighed loudly, resigned.

But it was the twentieth, when the corner of Levine’s mouth curled ever-so-slightly, that Eames knew he had won.

~+~+~

The job went smoothly. In and out, before Arthur could make an appearance. Eames couldn’t help but wonder if Levine had planned that, purposefully worked and reworked their roles until they could complete the job in minutes, dream-time.

Eames thought he could almost feel grateful for that.

~+~+~

“Look,” Levine said to Eames after the job, when it’s just the two of them alone, “I get that I told you to stop using my last name, but is this absolutely necessary?”

Eames batted his eyelashes. “Is what necessary, darling?”

Levine hesitated, face frozen. The corner of his mouth curled. “Fuck off,” he said, and pushed lightly against Eames’ shoulder.

Eames laughed and pushed him back like the adult he was.

Levine glanced at him, smiling softly. Eames’ next breath caught in his throat.

“So.” Levine fiddled with the sleeves of his coat. “Want a drink?”

~+~+~

They started working a lot of jobs together. The gossip Eames heard these days was, _Arthur and Eames, best team in dreamshare._

Eames still stiffened at the name Arthur, but not as much. Levine pretended not to notice.

~+~+~

There was this one job. Eames got the email while they were holed up in a small hotel in the middle of nowhere, so that Levine could make sure everyone else from their last job made it out safely.

“Schizophrenic _and_ militarized,” Eames said after he opened the email. 

“Nice,” Levine said, reading over shoulder.

“War vet.”

“Lots of grenades.”

Eames twisted around in his chair to face Levine. “Really?”

Levine arched a brow. “Say yes. I’m intrigued.”

“Call him yourself,” Eames muttered, rolling his eyes, but he wrote back, saying he would take the job. Levine accepted it that night when the extractor called him.

Jones turned out to be their chemist. He and Eames managed to convince the extractor to call in Michaels as architect.

“It’s like one of those college reunions,” Michaels said when he arrived.

“Missed you too, man,” Jones said, and hugged him.

Michaels made faces at Eames over Jones’ head.

“His subconscious is gonna be a minefield,” Levine said without preamble, walking into the room with a manila envelope. “Michaels,” he said in acknowledgement as he shoved the envelope into Eames’ hands.

“Sir,” Michaels said.

Eames flipped through the papers Levine had given him. “Excel spreadsheets?” he asked, wrinkling his nose. “Really, darling?”

“Like you don’t make charts for fun,” Levine called over his shoulder.

Michaels caught Eames’ eye. _Darling?_ he mouthed at Eames, eyebrow raised.

Eames rolled his eyes. “Long story,” he muttered.

Michaels nodded slowly. “I don’t think I want to know.” He patted Eames on the back. “Good to see you again.”

Eames smiled. “You too.”

~+~+~

“I need to forge one of the people he hallucinates,” Eames announced the next morning.

“No,” Levine said from across the room.

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no.”

Jones glanced back and forth between them. “It’s a good idea,” he offered.

“Thank you,” Eames said.

“Too risky,” Levine said, flipping through his notebook.

“Like extracting from a schizo isn’t?” Eames said.

“I said no, Eames,” Levine said.

“Fuck’s sake,” Eames said.

~+~+~

“Why not?” Eames demanded as he and Levine left for the night.

Levine sighed. “Still?”

“Of course.”

“Too many factors out of our control.”

“Like?”

“Like, we have no concrete way of knowing exactly how this person acts or dresses, or what they look like. This isn’t some friend from kindergarten, Eames, this is a person who lives in his head.”

Eames glanced at him. “It’s the best choice we’ve got.”

Levine pinched the bridge of his nose. “Give me time. I’ll come up with something else.”

Eames tilted his head to the side. “You know there’s a team of us for a reason, yeah?” When Levine didn’t answer, he added, “And I’m not sure I want you coming up with the ideas.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’re not very…” Eames shrugged.

“I’m not very what?”

“Well,” Eames said, drawing out the word. “You’re not very…creative.”

Levine stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “I can be fucking creative,” he said. “Have you seen my suits?”

Eames smirked and kept walking. “Just saying,” he called, grinning broadly.

~+~+~

The job was a success, somehow, even though their extractor was so useless that they made him stay topside to watch their backs. Eames knew Levine had all but moved mountains to make everything run as smoothly as it did.

He and Eames went out for their customary post-job drink, once they were in a different time zone.

“I shot him,” Eames said without context when they were on their third round.

“Good,” Levine said. His arm brushed against Eames’ as he shifted in the booth.

“Did it fast,” Eames added. “Fastest I’ve ever done it.”

Levine rolled his head to the side so he could see Eames, but said nothing.

“What?” Eames asked.

“Do you ever think the universe just fucked up?” Levine said.

Eames stared. “What?”

“The universe,” Levine said. “Or whoever assigns Soulmates. Do you ever think they got it wrong?”

“What are you talking about, Levine, you—”

“No, call me darling. I like it when you call me darling.”

“Okay, I think you’ve had one too many, c’mon, you—”

“I do. All the time. Think it.”

Eames shook his head roughly. “Think what?”

Levine licked his lips. “That the universe fucked up.”

“Why?”

“Because what kind of world is it when you have to shoot your soulmate in the head every time you want to dream?”

Eames drained his drink.

“Eames?”

“Yeah?”

“Why aren’t we Soulmates?”

“What?”

“I thought I was your Soulmate for so long. So fucking long. We were just meant to be. Except you already had a Soulmate. And then I found out he’s a lying asshole, so. Do you think the universe fucked up when it entered our names into the spreadsheet for its Soulmate-matching program? Mixed up me and your—you know. The other Arthur.”

Eames looked at Levine. “Did you really just say the universe uses spreadsheets to pick Soulmates?”

_”Eames.”_

Eames sighed. “Darling.”

Levine closed his eyes and smiled. “Yes?”

“This is a bad idea.”

“Probably,” Levine murmured. “What is it?”

Eames looked at Levine, his face, his eyelashes, his eyes as they flickered open.

“Eames?” Levine asked.

Eames said nothing.

Levine leaned in and kissed Eames, soft, warm, and then pulled away. “Was that your bad idea?”

Eames stared at him. “Darling,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” Levine said and kissed Eames again.

“We’re drunk,” Eames said.

“I’ve wanted to do this for years,” Levine said.

Eames closed his eyes.

“Eames?” Levine ran a hand up Eames’ arm and curled it around the back of his neck.

“Fuck,” Eames breathed, and kissed him.

~+~+~

Eames was warm. Warm, with no feeling in one of his arms.

He cracked open his eye.

Levine was asleep, wrapped around his arm like a limpet, head resting on Eames’ shoulder. He was drooling slightly, which shouldn’t have been as adorable as Eames thought it was.

 _What the fuck am I doing?_ Eames thought.

Levine stirred and blinked at him. “Cuddling me,” he said.

“Shit, did I say that out loud?” Eames asked.

Levine hummed and somehow tightened his grip on Eames’ arm. 

“Darling,” Eames said. “I can’t feel my arm.”

Levine blinked up at him again. His hair stuck up at odd angles around his head.

“Sorry,” Levine muttered. He relinquished his hold on Eames’ arm and pressed himself up against his side instead.

“No, but really,” Eames said, “not to ruin this lovely morning, but what the hell are we doing?”

“Deciding that the universe fucked up,” Levine answered, nuzzling Eames’ shoulder. “Because I should be your Soulmate, not that other asshole.”

Eames thought about that. “Is that allowed?”

“Jesus, Eames, are they gonna send intergalactical police after us?”

“You shouldn’t be able to use words like that before noon.” Eames threw his other arm over his eyes. “I’m making that a rule. No big words before lunch at least.”

Levine laughed. It was soft and carefree, and it made Eames’ heart lurch in his chest. 

“Okay,” Levine whispered. 

“Okay,” Eames said and pressed a kiss to the top of Levine’s head, just because.

Levine hummed happily.

~+~+~

They took more jobs together. It wasn’t really any different, except Eames would sometimes catch Levine watching him during the day, or Levine would brush against him when he walked by, or run a hand along the back of his neck.

And each touch would send a light shiver through him, and each glance would make his whole body feel warm, and he wondered if maybe the universe did screw up, just this once. Picked the wrong Arthur.

~+~+~

They were having a lazy morning, curled up in bed, when Levine’s phone rang.

Eames groaned. “Please don’t answer it.”

Levine climbed out from under his arms. “I have to, it’s Dom.”

“Dom Cobb?” Eames sat up. “Since when does he have your number?”

Levine shrugged. “We’ve gotten close, okay?”

“Since when?”

“Since I did my first job with them.” Levine gave Eames a look that asked why he cared.

Eames didn’t know why it mattered to him, but it did. “Why didn’t I know this?”

Levine looked at him. “Because it wasn’t relevant?” He answered his phone. “Hey Dom.” He climbed back onto the bed and leaned against Eames’ side. Eames could hear Dom’s voice on the other end, fast and frantic.

“Wait, wait, slow down,” Levine said. He sat up straight. “What happened? _What?_ ” His hand fisted in the sheets. “I don’t give a fuck whether or not you did it, Dom, what the fuck were you thinking?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dom.” He sighed loudly. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I’ll see you there.”

He hung up the phone and turned to Eames.

“No,” Eames said. “Whatever it is, don’t do it.”

Levine closed his eyes. “Mal’s dead.”

“What? How?”

Levine swallowed. “She jumped.”

“Holy shit,” Eames breathed.

“Thought she was dreaming.”

“Holy _shit_.”

“I have to go meet Dom at the airport.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Eames grabbed Levine’s arm before he could leave the bed. “Meet him?”

Levine sighed. “They think he did it. He couldn’t prove he _didn’t_ do it. So he ran.”

Eames stared at him. “That man is a fucking idiot—”

“I know.”

“—and you’re actually leaving to go _help_ him?”

Levine dropped his head. “I promised Mal, Eames. I said I’d look after him for her.”

“What, did you know she was fucking suicidal?”

“No, Eames, what the fuck, it was just in case something happened.” Levine’s voice was rising.

Eames shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

“I keep my promises, Eames.”

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

“Eames, what the fuck, of course you are, we—”

Eames put a hand on the side of Levine’s face and looked him straight in the eye. “Dom Cobb is never going to clear his name. And you won’t let yourself leave his side until he does.”

“Eames,” Levine breathed.

Eames kissed him. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore, didn’t want to think about this new pain in his chest, one he couldn’t even get rid of with Suppressants. Maybe this was his fate.

“Eames,” Levine said after, his forehead pressed against Eames’, “I’m not leaving you.”

Eames laughed humorlessly. “Except you are.” He rolled off the bed and turned on the shower. “Just—” He hesitated in the doorway to the bathroom. “Just, write me once in a while, yeah? Let me know you’re still alive?”

Levine watched him, dark eyes glimmering. He nodded stiffly.

Eames nodded back and stepped into the shower. When he emerged, fifteen minutes later, Levine was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was so much Eames wanted to say. “Arthur,” he said instead, hating how easily his mouth curled around the letters. A pair of blue eyes flashed in his mind. “You still working with that stick in the mud?”
> 
> Dom smirked slightly. “He’s good at what he does.”
> 
> “Oh, he’s the best,” Eames said. “But he has no imagination.” He thought about the universe and spreadsheets, and Levine. _No imagination._ That was the biggest lie Eames had ever told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to the lovely [Deinvati](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati) for being my cheerreader (yes, that's definitely a word, I saw a Tumblr post about it) and offering great feedback and support!

He went back to Mombasa. He found the grittiest, roughest bars and refused to back down from any fights. He wasted his days in casinos, wondering how far he could go before he was caught for cheating, then staggered back into bed just before dawn, waiting for that godawful soreness in his chest to go away.

He was just taking a break, he told himself. Taking a break from dreamshare.

Months later, he got a postcard in the mail. It was covered in so many stamps there was hardly any room for anything else. Crammed alongside the margins, in Levine’s spikey, rushed scrawl that he only used when he was writing for himself and not for briefs, was:

_D is safe. Tired. Taking a quick break before moving again._

And then, scrunched up in tiny, almost-illegible letters: _miss you._

Eames carried the postcard with him everywhere, until it grew so worn that it all but crumbled in his fingers. It didn’t matter. He had memorized it by then.

~+~+~

Eames had a particular mindset when he was gambling. Watch everything; make it seem like you see nothing. Be on alert; keep all your muscles loose.

Dom Cobb’s voice cut through his focus.

“You can rub them together all you want, they’re not going to breed.”

Eames had heard the gossip. Dom Cobb, the man who killed his wife, taking on jobs only a fool with a death wish would accept—and the silent, steady Arthur at his side. He had heard about the botched Cobol job and the price on Dom’s head. He knew Arthur and Dom had mysteriously fallen off the radar, and that Nash had been found, bloodied and shaken but still alive, behind the hotel they had been at.

Eames was a smart man; he knew there was only one reason Dom could be here. Eames forced his jaw to unclench enough to speak. “You never know.” He put two chips on a random square and walked away, brushing past Dom.

Dom followed him.

“Inception,” he said once they were seated at a small table in a nearby café. The arrogant ass even paused for effect. “Now, before you say it’s impossible—”

“It’s perfectly possible,” Eames interrupted, “it’s just bloody difficult.”

“Really?” Dom looked him in the eye. “Because Arthur says it can’t be done.”

Eames knew exactly why Levine had said that.

_He’s a liability. He endangers you and anyone else on a job with you._

_It wasn’t your fault, Eames. It was an unrealistic job anyway, and I’m the one who put you in charge of that level, so—_

There was so much Eames wanted to say. “Arthur,” he said instead, hating how easily his mouth curled around the letters. A pair of blue eyes flashed in his mind. “You still working with that stick in the mud?”

Dom smirked slightly. “He’s good at what he does.”

“Oh, he’s the best,” Eames said. “But he has no imagination.” He thought about the universe and spreadsheets, and Levine. _No imagination._ That was the biggest lie Eames had ever told.

“Not like you,” Dom said. 

“Listen,” Eames said, because he knew why Dom was here and he was a selfish asshole who would do anything, including putting up with Dom Cobb, to see Levine again. “If you’re going to perform Inception, you _need_ imagination.”

He saw the gleam in Dom’s eye and knew the egocentric extractor was already caught, hook, line, and sinker.

~+~+~

He thought he had prepared himself for when he would see Levine again. It would be either happy or stilted, he imagined, and he would be able to work with that, whichever reaction Levine chose.

He could hear Levine’s voice as he walked into the warehouse, and he couldn’t stop the small shiver that ran down his spine. It had been so bloody long.

Eames’ eyes quickly scanned the room and stopped at Levine—and the young woman standing at his side.

“Eames,” Levine said, with a warmth that wasn’t directed at him, “this is Ariadne.”

Ariadne smiled up at Levine, tender, besotted, and the revelation hit Eames like a punch to the gut.

Levine had a Soulmate. And it wasn’t him.

~+~+~

He wanted to hate Ariadne, he really did. But she was smart and sharp and inventive, and Eames couldn’t help but love her enthusiasm and ingenuity.

And yet, every time Levine smiled at her or spoke to her or even looked at her, Eames was struck with how much he wanted Levine to smile or speak or look at _him._ And that may have made him a little...off.

“So he gives himself the idea,” Levine mused during their meeting.

Eames hesitated, staring into Levine’s deep eyes. “Precisely,” he forced himself to say, shaking himself. “That’s the only way it will stick. It has to seem self-generated.”

Levine leaned back in his chair, mouth curling. “Eames,” he said, “I am impressed.”

And that _hurt,_ it hurt more than Eames could understand, struck him right in the chest so harshly that his heart terrifyingly skipped a few beats, but he pushed that all aside and plastered a tight smile on his face. “Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Arthur, thank you.”

He imagined that Levine flinched slightly when he called him Arthur.

~+~+~

Dom Cobb was blabbering about catharsis and positive emotion. It was so painful Eames felt like his heart was throbbing its way out of his chest in retaliation.

“Alright, well try this,” Eames said, shifting in his chair. “My father accepts that I want to create for myself, not follow in his footsteps.”

Dom nodded slowly. “That might work.”

“Might?” Levine asked, eyebrows raised. “We’re gonna need to do a little better than might.”

Eames sat up straighter as he turned towards Levine. “Oh, thank you for your contribution, Arthur,” he said, feeling a small sting of satisfaction as Levine’s eyes flickered.

“Forgive me for wanting a little specificity,” Levine bit out.

Eames met his gaze, eyebrow raised. “Speci-what?” he murmured.

“Specificity,” Levine gritted, jaw clenched.

“Inception’s not about being specific,” Dom mumbled, oblivious.

~+~+~

Eames knew how obnoxious he was being, but he couldn’t stop.

“What’s a kick?” Ariadne asked, wide-eyed and curious.

The words flew out of his mouth before he could check them. “This, Ariadne, would be a kick.”

It was easy to catch the foot of Levine’s chair under his toe and send him crashing back down to reality. As Levine turned to glare at him, Eames smiled brightly, feeling a sudden rush of dizziness, high on the sight of Levine’s face.

~+~+~

Eames’ tie was too tight. That was the only explanation he had for his discomfort, for the way it felt like his breath was sticking in his throat, the strange lightheadedness he was experiencing. He shifted uneasily in his chair as he studied Peter Browning, dutifully taking notes from his seat in the corner.

He wondered if Peter Browning had even noticed his presence. Surely nobody had told him that they hired an intern.

Browning bullied his way through the office, Eames noted. He wondered if that’s what Arthur had been like at work. He certainly wore his suits the same way.

Eames frowned and shook himself roughly. What was he doing thinking about _Arthur?_

~+~+~

He pulled Yusuf aside later that week, when the others weren’t paying attention. “I think there’s something wrong with my Suppressants,” he murmured, heart pounding irregularly.

Yusuf’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”

Eames shook his head slowly. Any faster and he thought he might actually faint. “I don’t…” He licked his lips. “I don’t feel right. I don’t…”

Yusuf frowned. “I’ll look into it,” he said. He glanced around the quiet warehouse. “Why don’t you call it day? You’ve done enough. Get some rest.”

Eames thought that was a fantastic idea, so he went back to his small hotel room and collapsed on his bed. He woke up in the morning ready for anything.

Naturally, that was the day Maurice Fischer died.

~+~+~

Of course, the job went tits up the minute they went under. And of course, Dom lied to them all about the true dangers of the sedative and bribed fucking Yusuf to play along. And of course, they were all trapped in the dream, constantly facing the threat of limbo, with a green architect and billionaire tourist.

Fucking fantastic.

And then, on the second level, Eames walked past Levine and Ariadne, sitting stiffly on a small bench. And he pretended not to notice when Levine leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, tried not to remember how those lips felt against his own.

_Do you ever think the universe just fucked up?_

He flirted with Saito to distract himself. It mostly worked.

~+~+~

As they prepared to go under yet again, Levine crouched down at Eames’ side, deft fingers reaching for Eames’ sleeve.

 _Go help your Soulmate,_ Eames wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat, and he said instead, “Security’s gonna run you down hard,” and watched Levine slide in the IV with cool, gentle fingers.

“And I will lead them,” Levine said with a smirk, “on a merry chase.”

And there was so much going wrong on the job, the least of which was Cobb’s fucking bullshit behavior, but right there, right then, Levine was smiling at Eames and touching Eames and talking to Eames, and it was so painfully easy to smile back and murmur, “Just be back before the kick.”

Levine laid Eames’ hand across his chest. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” he said.

Eames did.

~+~+~

Eames was one of the first to wake up on the plane, slightly woozy. Levine was not far behind, and his lips thinned as he glanced at Dom’s seat.

Eames caught Levine’s eye and tried to convey…something.

Levine stared back. _Wait for me,_ he mouthed. _After._

Eames nodded. And when they reached the baggage claim, he snagged himself a cart and put his lonely little suitcase on top of it and lounged against it and basically tried to do anything but look like he was a lovesick idiotic fool waiting for his even more idiotic should-be Soulmate.

God, this was such a mess. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling a wave of dizziness crash into him.

“Eames?” Levine said.

Eames opened eyes he hadn’t realized he had shut. “Darling,” he murmured. His heart thudded and skipped in his chest. “I,” he started. Another wave of dizziness hit. He leaned heavily on the cart, then stumbled as it rolled out from under him.

He was on the floor, he realized dimly. Someone was shouting his name.

“Darling,” he tried to say. Everything went dark.

~+~+~

He woke up in a dark room, chest throbbing. He looked around blearily and spotted the hunched figure at his bedside. “Darling,” he croaked.

Levine started and grabbed Eames’ hand. “Eames,” he said.

Eames blinked slowly. “What…”

“Just rest,” Levine said. His fingers lightly traced patterns around Eames’ knuckles. “It’s okay.”

There was something… “Darling,” he tried.

Levine shushed him, eyes pinched. “It’s alright, Eames, really.”

No, it wasn’t, there was something he was forgetting, something— Eames tried to sit up, frantic, but Levine pushed him back down.

_“Eames.”_

“Ariadne,” Eames managed. “Where is she?”

Levine frowned. “She caught a flight out nights ago, Eames, she’s long gone, what’s—”

Eames struggled upright again but had to settle for clutching Levine’s hand. “Go,” he said.

“Go?” Levine scowled. “Eames, what the hell—”

“You—” Eames shook their joined hands, frustrated. “Soulmates. Too far apart, it can, it could—” He swallowed. “It will kill you. Go. Wherever she went. I can. I can figure this out, I don’t want you to—”

Levine’s face cleared, then darkened. “Oh,” he breathed. “Of course he never told you.”

Another wave of dizziness hit, and Eames squeezed his eyes shut until it passed. His breath was sticking in his throat. “Darling—”

Levine leaned down and pressed his lips against Eames’ forehead. “Shh,” he murmured. “It’s alright, Eames. It’s okay. Just rest. I’ll be here. Don’t worry.”

And there was too much happening that Eames didn’t understand, but he was lightheaded and he couldn’t quite manage to take a deep breath, so he let his eyes flutter shut and let sleep pull him back under.

~+~+~

When Eames woke up again, Levine was still holding his hand. Eames tried to take a deep breath and was surprised when he actually could.

“What’s happening,” he murmured, exhausted.

Levine gently ran his fingers along the back of Eames’ hand and arm. “Your phone rang while you were out,” he said, looking down at the bedspread. “I answered it.”

“Okay?” Eames turned his hand over, palm up, and Levine’s fingers brushed against it.

“Your—the other Arthur,” Levine said, “is in the hospital. Heart attack.”

Eames sluggishly twined his fingers with Levine’s. “Okay?”

“Cardiomyopathy,” Levine said. “A weakened heart.”

“Darling,” Eames breathed.

Levine looked up and met his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“What didn’t who tell me?” Eames asked instead. “How are you still here?”

Levine sighed. “I found your medical file a few years ago, when I was…researching you. When you were in the hospital, it said…” He scoffed and shook his head. “It said the doctor told you, but I should’ve known.”

Eames swallowed. “Doctor told me what?”

Levine rested his elbows on the side of the bed and leaned in closer to Eames. “Your Soulbond,” he whispered, “is abnormally strong. It’s…it’s an anomaly.”

Eames slowly shook his head. “What?”

Levine ran the back of his hand along Eames’ forehead, eyes distant. “The doctor’s notes said to put you and your…the other Arthur on Suppressants right away, and to minimize the amount of time you were separated. Too much distance between you could…” He glanced away. “You know.”

“So.” Eames stared at Levine. “This isn’t normal?”

Levine dropped his head until it rested on Eames’ shoulder. “I thought you knew,” he murmured.

“No,” Eames breathed. “Never.”

Levine sighed, his breath tickling Eames’ arm. “So,” he said, “about the other Arthur.”

“What about him?” Eames asked.

Levine straightened and looked Eames in the eye. “You have to go to him, find out what’s wrong.”

“We know what’s wrong,” Eames said. “Cardiomyopia.”

“Myopathy,” Levine murmured.

“Yeah that. What else do we need to know?”

Levine closed his eyes and kissed Eames’ forehead again. “Eames,” he said slowly, “with your Soulbond…” He glanced away, briefly, then met Eames’ eyes. “If he dies, you might die too.”

~+~+~

Eames hated hospitals. The last time he’d been in one, he was a not-quite adult who had just met his Soulmate. This time, he was an experience-scarred man who was about to come face-to-face with the man who had haunted him for years.

He walked down the sterile halls, wondering if his heart was racing because of nerves or because Arthur’s heart was fucked up.

“Any discomfort in the last few days?” the nurse had asked him before directing him to Arthur’s room. “Any sign of stress from the Soulbond?”

Yes. Obviously yes. The dizziness, the throbbing in his chest, the shortness of breath. He’d been having mini fucking heart attacks the entire job, thanks to Arthur.

He stopped outside the door to Arthur’s room, trying to force himself to take those last few steps. A hand slipped into his, and he glanced at Levine with a wan smile. Levine smiled back and pressed a kiss to Eames’ shoulder.

Fortified, Eames stepped inside, Levine in tow. The room was small but lavish, for a hospital room. Arthur’s bed was the only one in it, and the television mounted on the far corner was significantly larger than the one Eames had watched, way back when. Machines were beeping and glowing and being annoyingly present in the way hospital machines were. Flowers cluttered the windowsill and almost surrounded the bed entirely. The competing scents almost made Eames retch.

Next to the bed, with perfectly manicured red nails, sat a bone-thin, pouty-lipped, bottle blonde, who was staring at Eames like he was one of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. Eames didn’t even bother to give her a second glance.

He let his eyes finally take in the hospital bed—and the man lying in it.

Arthur’s gaze traveled up and down Eames, from toe to head to toe, then drifted over to Levine.

“See, Rosie?” he said, ice-blue eyes sharp as ever. “I told you I had nothing to be guilty about. Asshole went and got himself a boyfriend anyway.”

Eames swallowed, his mouth dry. “Hello, Arthur,” he said.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not a kid anymore,” Eames said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's alive!!!!!
> 
> And you know what's even better?? I'm currently working on the next chapter for [Sensational!!!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7132283/chapters/16195040)
> 
> I know. I'm surprised too. I'm stuck on Friday (literally, the sentence I'm on says, _On Friday,_ and then nothing else) but once I figure out what, exactly, does happen on Friday, the chapter will almost be ready for public consumption! Yay for updates!

Arthur curled his lip and turned to Rosie. “That’s Eames,” he said.

Rosie arched a carefully waxed eyebrow.

Eames took a deep breath. “So your heart’s fucked, I hear.”

“No more than my Soulmate’s,” Arthur scoffed.

Eames clenched his jaw. “Seems about right, since you’re the one that fucked it up in the first place.”

Arthur turned back to Rosie. “Kid thinks he’s a fucking genius.”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” Eames said.

Arthur ignored him and looked at Levine. “Who the hell are you? Other than the guy my Soulmate’s fucking?”

Levine’s lips thinned. “You don’t have the right to call him that.”

“Call him what?” Arthur sneered. “A kid?”

“No,” Levine said. “Your Soulmate.”

“Oh really?” Arthur managed to look like he was leaning back in his bed in a careless sprawl. “‘Cause the universe seems to think I do.”

“The universe knows better,” Levine said. “It just figured it out too late.”

“Let me guess.” Arthur held up a hand. “You’re the universe’s solution.”

Levine smiled slowly and placed an arm over Eames’ shoulders. “I know,” he said to Arthur. “I get it. You’re understandably jealous.”

Arthur laughed once, a bark. “Yeah right,” he snarled. The beeps from the monitor at his side sped up. “Like I could ever be jealous of _that_.”

“Arthur,” Rosie said, reaching out to grab his hand. “Arthur, you know the doctor said—”

Arthur shook off her hand and pointed at Levine. “And you’ve got some fucking nerve,” he said. “Some _fucking_ nerve to come in here and tell me what I have _the right_ to do.”

Levine arched a brow.

The monitor beeped more frantically.

“Arthur,” Rosie whined.

A nurse strode into the room and glanced around. “Excuse me,” she said, turning to Eames and Levine, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Don’t worry,” Levine muttered. He tucked his hand in the crook of Eames’ elbow and started towards the door.

“Yeah,” Arthur grunted. He ignored the nurse’s efforts to make him lie back and rest. “Run away, honey. Hate to see you go.”

~+~+~

When they left the hospital, Levine turned to Eames and said, “Take me to your favorite place.” Eames thought for a minute and took Levine to the park, with the pond and the ducks. Levine bought a pretzel from a nearby cart and proceeded to give it to the ducks in small crumb portions.

Eames watched him, mind swirling with Arthur and Levine and Soulmates and cardiomyopia or whatever it was.

“You know,” Levine said into the quiet, “I always wondered if you built him up more in your subconscious.” He glanced over at Eames. “You hadn’t seen him in years. Maybe you remembered him differently or something.”

Eames snorted.

“Yeah,” Levine said. He tossed the last few pieces of pretzel into the pond and crumbled the bag into a ball. “So.” He glanced at Eames again. “What do you want to do?”

“To do?” Eames echoed.

“Do you want to stay or leave?” Levine asked, as if it were that simple.

Eames looked down. “What’s Ariadne doing?”

“Eames.” Levine reached out and gently pulled Eames’ hand away from where it had been rubbing at his chest. He held it between his own hands and smiled softly at it. “Ari and I…You don’t have to worry about it.”

Eames frowned and tried to pull his hand away, but Levine wouldn’t let go. “What do you mean, don’t worry about it?” Eames asked. “You’re Soulmates. You expect me to just forget that?” He shook his head. “No, no, I can’t come between that, and clearly the universe didn’t fuck up like we’ve been saying, right? You have your Soulmate and I have mine, and it’s…You shouldn’t even be here with me, you should be with her, okay? I can handle this, I’ll just—”

Levine stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Eames, burying his nose in Eames’ shoulder. “Eames,” he breathed. “Really, you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Would you cut the crap?” Eames tried to sound annoyed and frustrated, but he didn’t quite pull it off while mumbling into the soft fabric covering Arthur’s shoulder. “Soulmates are Soulmates. We don’t mess with that.”

Levine sighed and leaned away enough to look Eames in the eye. “We’re platonic Soulmates,” he said, smiling faintly.

Eames stared. “You’re what?”

Levine’s smile grew and he pulled Eames close again for a hug, tighter than the last one. “She understands. I promise.”

“No, wait.” Eames shook his head. “What are you talking about? During the job, you—I saw you both…”

Levine chuckled softly, his breath tickling Eames’ ear. “Yeah, that just about sealed the deal.”

“What?”

“She understands, Eames. And she likes you, so—”

“Wait, what do you mean, she _understands?_ ” Eames pulled away from Levine’s warmth. “What did you tell her?”

Levine hesitated, eyes wide. “Nothing, Eames, just that you and me were… _us,_ and I wasn’t…I just…Nothing big, nothing you wouldn’t…be comfortable with.”

Eames ran a hand over his face. “I can’t…I don’t…” He winced and brought up his hand to rub his chest again. 

“Eames, I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would be…I didn’t think you’d…”

“Darling.”

“Ari is really discrete, okay? She won’t say anything to anyone, and I swear I didn’t tell her about… _this,_ so…”

Eames’ chest constricted painfully. He couldn’t breathe. _“Darling,_ ” he wheezed. 

“And if you want, I can…You can…When we finish here, we can tell her…something, anything, whatever you’re comfortable with, okay? And—”

His legs gave out underneath him, and he slid to the ground. _Déjà vu,_ he thought distantly, hearing Levine shout his name.

~+~+~

He woke up in a hospital room, with Levine asleep at his side, slouched in a chair, head resting on the edge of Eames’ bed. Eames slowly maneuvered his arm enough to brush his fingers against Levine’s hair.

Levine startled and sat up. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Eames breathed, smiling. “Hi, darling.”

Levine smiled softly. “Hi.”

“Shut up,” Arthur shouted.

Eames turned towards his voice, but Levine put a hand on the side of his face and wiggled his eyebrows in Arthur’s direction. Eames chuckled.

“Sorry,” Levine breathed into Eames’ ear, brushing his nose against Eames’ temple. “They insisted you be in the same room.”

“A less fancy one?” Eames whispered.

Levine’s laugh tickled Eames’ ear. “Yes.”

Eames breathed deeply, eyelids drooping. “Good,” he managed.

“Sleep,” Levine said. He pressed a kiss to Eames’ cheek. “I’ll be here.”

~+~+~

His chest was burning, _bursting_. He gasped, clawing his way back to consciousness. Those damned machines were clanging away, and he could hear nurses shouting orders at each other. All on the other side of the room, of course. With Arthur.

A hand rested on his arm. “Darling,” he gasped.

“He left to get a hotel room,” someone murmured. “He’ll be back soon, Eames, it’s okay.”

Cool hands brushed against his forehead.

Across the room, one of the nurses shouted, “Somebody get me nitroglycerin!”

Eames let the pain pull him back under and blissfully left the noisy hospital room behind.

~+~+~

“No, this is absolute bullshit,” Levine shouted, “and you know it!”

“Sir, please, lower your voice—”

“You only treat him, not Eames. In what universe does that make sense? Huh?”

“Sir—”

“No, answer me. How does that make _any sense?”_

“Mr. Winston is the one suffering from the heart attacks, sir, so we—”

“Eames is suffering from them too. Or did you not notice his cries of pain from two feet away?”

Eames forced his eyes open. Ariadne smiled down at him. “Hi,” she said softly.

“Yes, sir, it is possible he may experience some discomfort through the Soulbond, but—”

 _“Some discomfort?_ It’s obvious he’s under extreme pain, more than Winston.”

Eames licked his dry lips. “How,” he said, eyelids drooping shut. “Why are you here?”

Ariadne gently rubbed his shoulder. “Arthur called.”

“Sir, please,” the nurse said across the room.

Levine sighed loudly. “Do you know what’s causing the attacks?”

“Mr. Winston has cardiomyopathy, sir, and—”

“Will they stop?”

“Sir?”

“Will the heart attacks stop?”

The nurse hesitated. Then, in a lower voice: “Mr. Winston will most likely pass away by the end of the year.”

Levine was silent for a long moment.

“Do you have other questions, sir?”

“No,” Levine said. “No. Thank you.”

Eames’ eyelids flickered. “Darling,” he breathed.

A hand curled around his. “Don’t worry, Eames,” Levine whispered, kissing his forehead. “Just rest. I’ll handle this.”

And there were things Eames wanted to say, questions he needed to ask, but he was still so, so tired, so he let himself succumb to his exhaustion and fall back asleep.

~+~+~

The next time he woke, his old team surrounded him.

“Hey,” Michaels said. “How you feeling?”

Eames stared, mouth open.

“I thought it was his heart that wasn’t working,” Jones said to the others. Michaels hit him on the back of the head.

“What’s everyone doing here?” Eames mumbled.

Weisman said, “Levine called us. We’re gonna do Inception.”

Kim cracked her knuckles and smirked.

“Inception?” Eames echoed, blinking blearily. “For who?”

“Don’t worry,” Michaels said. He glanced over his shoulder. “Levine’s trying to get you discharged right now. We’ll fill you in later.”

Eames drifted off again, and the next time he was fully awake, Levine was wheeling him out of the hospital to a car parked at the curb. Kim was behind the wheel.

“Wait, are you sure you can see over the wheel _and_ reach the pedals?” Jones asked her.

“Are you sure you won’t miss your arm after I break it?” she replied sweetly.

Eames laughed as Levine helped him into the car and climbed in next to him.

“Where to, Sarge?” Kim asked Levine.

“The Four Seasons,” Levine said with a smile. “I booked us all rooms.”

“Holy crap, Sarge!” Jones leaned over the back of their seats. “Are you dying? Is this, like, a sign?”

Levine snorted. “Not quite.”

~+~+~

“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Jones announced, dropping his bag inside the door and collapsing on the nearest bed. The comforter poofed around him dramatically.

Michaels laughed and jumped on the bed next to him.

“Asshole!” Jones shouted. “You kicked me!”

“Shut up,” Michaels said, sprawling on top of him. “You’re in the way.”

“So, Sarge,” Weisman said, sitting on the couch. “Who are we incepting?”

Levine helped Eames sit down then turned to the others.

“We,” Levine said, “will be incepting Arthur Winston.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a *ton* happens in this chapter, I know, but I didn't want to try and cram the inception job into this chapter too, so I decided to stop it here. I can't promise when the next update will be, but it will come, I promise!!
> 
> Please come and scream with me, either by commenting below or finding me on [Tumblr!](http://iamanonniemouse.tumblr.com/) I love, love, love, love, _love_ to hear from all of you!!! Your comments mean the world to me!
> 
> Okay. I'll stop abusing punctuation now.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are we planting in his head?” Kim asked.
> 
> “We’re gonna make him break up with his girlfriend,” Jones said.
> 
> “No,” Levine said. “We’re going to try to incept him out of his Soulbond.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *kicks down door*  
> I'M BAAAAACK!!!
> 
> Did you all miss me? Were you all glaring at my other fanfics that I kept posting like a fic-writing fiend, just _daring_ me to come back to Bird? Yeah, I was too. On the inside. Deep down.
> 
> I would now like to ask that we all take a moment to send our gratitude to flosculatory, my faithful, tireless friend who once again sent me a plot to end this fic and helped me bulldoze through my writer's block to get you all this chapter. I think there will be two chapters left to this? About? We'll see.
> 
> To everyone still following this story, thank you. And I hope you enjoy!

“About time,” Weisman said. “Asshole deserves what’s coming to him.”

“We gonna make him break up with his girlfriend or something?” Jones asked.

Levine sighed and started to answer when the hotel door opened. Everyone reached for the closest gun.

Ariadne stepped into the room.

“Um,” she said, eying the various firearms, “sorry?”

Levine smiled at her. The others stared at him.

“This is Ariadne,” Levine announced. “She’ll be working with us.”

“Right,” Michaels said slowly, looking between the two of them.

Levine nodded. “I’ve started compiling the research we need,” he said, pulling out a small pile of papers, “but this is all I have so far.” He shook his head. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

“What are we planting in his head?” Kim asked.

“We’re gonna make him break up with his girlfriend,” Jones said.

“No,” Levine said. “We’re going to try to incept him out of his Soulbond.”

“Holy shit,” Michaels said.

“Is that possible?” Weisman asked.

Levine shrugged roughly. “Nobody’s done it before.”

Jones nodded slowly. “Okay. So how are we gonna do this?”

~+~+~

They started with research. Reams and reams of papers on Soulbonds and Soulmates and the mysterious supernatural science that created them.

“Listen,” Weisman said during their daily briefing, “everything we’ve read that talks about breaking Soulbonds basically says, ‘Don’t.’” He eyed Levine and Eames. “Is this worth the risk?”

Levine frowned. “Do you think I would be trying to do this if there were any other options?”

Weisman raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not questioning you, Sarge. I’m just saying. This sounds like pretty risky business.”

“This paper describes Soulbonds as a rubber band,” Kim added. “If you stretch it too much, it will snap—but the force of the bond breaking will ricochet back and cause severe mental stress and injury that cannot be healed.” She paused at everyone’s blank stares and clarified, “It will make them go crazy.”

The others paused, the silence heavy. Levine sighed and pressed his head into his hands.

“What if,” Eames started, but then a spike of pain shot through his chest, and he doubled over from his seat on the couch. Fuck. Another attack.

“Eames.” Levine was at his side, arm wrapped around him. “Hey, just try to breathe, okay? It’ll be over soon, you’re okay. I’m right here.” He gripped Eames’ hand tightly. “I’m not going anywhere. Just stay with me, okay? Eames. Stay with me.”

Eames could barely focus on Levine through the pain in his chest. He gasped and panted and clawed at his own chest as if he could dig out his stupid, traitorous heart, and then, just like that, the pain disappeared.

Eames collapsed against the back of the couch, sweaty clothes clinging to his skin. Levine murmured sweet nothings in his ear, continued to hold Eames’ hand.

After Eames got his breath back, Levine turned to face the others, eyes hard as steel. “We need to do this,” he said to them. “And we need to do this right.”

~+~+~

“So,” Michaels said slowly as they all separated to go to sleep. “You and Levine? Or is it Levine and the girl?”

Eames shrugged. “It’s complicated. Fucking Soulbonds.”

“I hear you, bud,” Michaels said. “We’ll get this right. I’m damned if I’m going to be the reason you get any crazier than you already are.”

Eames laughed helplessly. “Thanks, mate. Means a lot to me.”

~+~+~

“Here’s something,” Ariadne called out a few days later. “Each member of a Soulmate pair has an object buried in their subconscious that represents the Soulbond. It is a widely accepted theory that destroying these objects would break the Soulbond.”

“Where are you getting that?” Weisman asked.

“Dreamshare journal,” she answered, holding it up in the air. “It’s something, right?”

“If that’s true,” Kim said, “this is really more of an extraction than an inception.”

“Damn,” Jones sighed. “I was looking forward to saying I performed an inception.”

“Shut up,” Michaels said.

“Wait.” Levine stood and walked over the board they had propped up against the wall. “We can’t just break one end of a Soulbond, or it’ll snap like a rubber band.” He eyed the pages of research pinned to the board. “So how do we do this?”

“What happens if we break both ends at the same time?” Kim asked. “Would the backlash forces cancel each other out?”

The others turned to stare at her.

“What?” she said. “It was just a thought.”

“It’s brilliant,” Ariadne said, grinning.

Kim smiled back.

~+~+~

“We’ll need two separate teams,” Levine said the next morning. “One to go into Winston’s head, the other to go into Eames’.”

Jones raised his hand. “I volunteer to go into Eames’ subconscious.”

Levine arched a brow. “Okay.”

“I’ll go into Winston’s,” Kim said.

“How about we figure out what we’re doing first?” Michaels suggested.

“Thank you,” Levine said. “We’ll need to find the items in both their subconscious and destroy them at the exact same time.”

Ariadne turned to Eames. “Do you know what your item is?”

He shook his head. “There was no love between us. We didn’t even do anything meaningful together.”

“Well what comes to mind?” Ariadne asked.

Eames shrugged. “The park. The library where we met. Pretzels, ducks.” Other women’s lipstick. Perfume. That bottle of wine in the fridge. His fucking car. His sweaty, drooping hair that day.

_I passed out in front of the fucking CEO because you couldn’t fucking cope! How do you think that makes me look, huh? Like some fucking idiot whose Soulmate is so fucking weak he can’t—_

Levine cleared his throat. “We can come back to that. How are we going to time it so that both things are destroyed together? If we’re off at all, it’ll destroy Eames’ mind.”

“Can we use music, like when you play a song to synchronize kicks in a multi-layer dream?” Kim suggested.

“Yeah,” Jones said. “Have it set so that you destroy the item at the end of the first verse, or something.”

“But what if one team finds their item and the other doesn’t?” Eames asks. “Then I’m shit out of luck.”

That threw everyone. They pondered it for a long moment.

“Too bad we all can’t go into both of your heads at the same time,” Weisman said.

“How would that work?” Ariadne asked.

“I have no idea,” Weisman said. “But it would make our lives a whole lot easier.”

~+~+~

Eames woke in the middle of night, nearly screaming. He rolled over in bed, hands clutching at his chest, trying to stop the pain. He whimpered, gasping for breath. This pain was so acute, like the strain on his Soulbond before he had gotten Suppressants, only worse. Stronger, deeper.

Warmth pressed against his back, and Levine climbed into bed behind Eames, wrapping his arms around him. This time, he didn’t say anything. He stayed with Eames until the attack ended, arms clutching him tightly, and when Eames’ breathing had slowed, he pressed his nose to the back of Eames’ neck and whispered, “Try to get some sleep.”

Eames slept.

~+~+~

“I figured it out,” Michaels announced the next morning.

“Figured what out?” Levine asked, rubbing his eyes.

“The ‘what if one team finds their item and the other doesn’t’ problem.”

“You did?” Jones shouted.

Michaels nodded. “If your team can’t find the object and the music starts to play, you kick out one member. That person wakes up someone from the other team, and the entire mission aborts.”

“And we try, try again?” Kim asked.

Michaels shrugged. “We’ll have to, won’t we? We don’t really have any other options.”

~+~+~

Ariadne started building her models the next day. They decided to use the same architecture for both dreams, to make it easier for everyone. Eames described Arthur’s apartment and the nearby surroundings to her.

“Wouldn’t it be easier for you to just show me?” she asked eventually, after Eames was trying to find the right words to explain the corner store.

He hesitated. “I suppose. But you should probably know something first.”

Ariadne’s eyes widened. “Oh God, do you have a Mal, too?”

“Sort of,” Eames admitted. “It’s my projection of Arthur. He has this habit of showing up. But I shoot him, so it’s fine. I just thought I’d warn you.”

Ariadne reached over and placed her hand on top of his.

Eames looked at her, confused.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry that you’ve had to deal with all of this. It’s not fair.”

Eames glanced away. “Well—”

“Arthur’s crazy about you,” Ariadne interrupted. “Just so you know.”

He frowned. “I don’t really understand,” he said, “about…you two.”

She shrugged. “Not much to understand. We’re perfectly compatible—as friends. Neither of us wants anything more than that.”

“Why?” Eames asked, because Ariadne had crossed personal lines often enough that he felt he was owed this.

“Because he’s in love with you,” Ariadne said matter-of-factly. “And because I’m more interested in women.”

“Oh,” Eames said.

Ariadne smiled. “While we’re on the topic, actually—do you know if Stephanie is seeing anyone?”

“Stephanie?” Eames echoed.

“Yeah, you know, Stephanie Kim? Your military buddy? The kickass blackbelt? The hot—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Eames interrupted. “I get it. Um. Yeah, I have no clue, sorry. We don’t really talk. About those kind of things.”

Ariadne sighed playfully. “I guess I’ll have to find out for myself.”

God help us all, Eames thought.

~+~+~

They did the very ethical thing and paid off the hospital staff so that nobody would comment on the five men and two women who tromped into Arthur Winston’s hospital room with two large silver briefcases in hand.

They went in the middle of the night, so Rosie wouldn’t be there.

And they went in the middle of the week, because Rosie had work early every morning and wouldn’t be in for a long time.

They had chosen the teams last night by pulling straws. Jones and Michaels went with Eames. Levine, Kim, and Weisman got Arthur. Ariadne got the short straw and had to stay topside, to play the music and monitor both groups.

Eames lay down on the extra hospital bed that was still in the room, and the others circled around him.

“Alright, bud,” Michaels said as they inserted their IVs. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Eames said. 

“Let’s just pray that Winston doesn’t have an attack while we’re all under,” Jones said, frowning. “I don’t know how that will affect the dream.”

“Shit,” Weisman said. “Why did you have to say that?”

“Everyone ready?” Ariadne called, hands poised over each PASIV.

They all nodded, and Eames lay back on the bed and let the Somnacin pull him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on [Tumblr.](http://iamanonniemouse.tumblr.com/) Come message me and remind me to write more of this fic. I won't be offended.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Eames," Michaels said slowly, "where are all your projections?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW it's been so long, my friends, do you even remember me haha? Sheesh you've only been waiting for an update since, well, _June._ That's only....seven months.......haha. ha.
> 
> I'm horrible.
> 
> On the bright side, I expect only one more chapter to wrap things up, so that should be posted by probably May, knowing my track record. 
> 
> I had the absolute WORST time writing this chapter. I wrote probably 3 versions that I subsequently, immediately scrapped, because it was just lacking that necessary _something._ And between this chapter's lack of cooperation and my crazy course load, the writing just didn't happen. But it finally did happen, and it's here, and it's finished, and I'm posting it and apologizing to you all haha. I hope you enjoy  <3

There was something strange in the air when Eames opened his eyes, but he couldn't place it. He turned slowly, digesting the unease inside him. He was back again, at the place he had sworn he'd never revisit. His chest twinged. A phantom.

"Eames," Michaels said slowly, "where are all your projections?"

Eames looked at him blankly. He was right; the street was deserted.

"Can we hurry?" Jones asked. "This is creeping me out." He started walking down the road. A breeze slipped past, sending an empty bag fluttering away from them.

"Geez, dramatic much?" Michaels muttered. "We get that the place is abandoned."

Eames realized his hand was pressed against his chest and forced it down to his side. "Let's try the park first," he said.

"Not the house?" Michaels asked.

Eames shrugged. "It's no more special than the bloody park or library."

Michaels nodded.

"Uh, guys?" Jones called from up ahead. "There's nothing here except a shit-ton of ducks."

Eames sighed. "It's not here, then," he called back. "Come on, we'll try the library."

They had to put all their weight against the library doors before they grudgingly squealed open, revealing a dark, abandoned building.

"I mean it, Eames," Michaels said. "Your subconscious is really setting the scene here." He glanced at Eames. "You okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

Michaels reached out and placed a hand on top of Eames'. It was on his chest again.

Eames shook himself. "Yeah, habit, I guess. It's weird being back here."

"What's left for us to check?" Jones asked. "I don't think there's anything in here."

"The house," Eames said. He half-expected Michaels to make a joke about that, since he had suggested it in the first place, but Michaels was silent.

Eames looked over at him, questioning, but Michaels didn't notice. He was too busy staring at Eames' hand.

Jones crossed his arms restlessly. "I'm getting really weirded out, guys, can we hurry?"

"Yeah," Michaels said, looking up. "We should hurry. I want to get Eames out of here, stat."

Eames led them towards the house. "I'm not some fragile flower," he murmured to Michaels.

"No," Michaels agreed, "but this place isn't good for you. I don't want you to be here more than you have to." He reached out and pulled Eames' hand away from his chest again. This time, he didn't let go.

"You fancy me, mate?" Eames tried to joke. "And you've hid it this whole time?"

Michaels didn't crack a smile. "Last place, Eames. It has to be here. You ready?"

Eames nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Let's end this."

~+~+~

Eames probably could have pulled out the spare key Arthur kept by the door, but it felt more symbolic to pick the lock. Michaels insisted he go inside first, and he froze just inside the sitting room.

"Oh, fuck me," he breathed.

Eames paused. "What is it?" he asked. Behind him, Jones shifted restlessly.

Michaels turned towards them. "I think we found your object," he said. "It's…it's not good."

"Michaels," Eames said, "nothing we do is good." He forced himself forward, then froze at Michaels' side.

"This," he said. He didn't know what to say.

Jones slowly entered the room. "Oh, what the fuck," he blurted.

They stared at the figure sitting under the window, legs pulled up against his chest, arms wrapped around his knees.

"It's—it's me," Eames said dumbly.

Eames watched himself, curled up in that damn chair under that damn window. Watched himself shudder and obsessively rub his chest, watched himself struggle to understand why this had become his life, and he was suddenly filled with such _hate_ , because Arthur had done this, Arthur had made him like this.

He pulled out his gun and checked it over.

"Eames," Michaels said, tentative.

"It's okay," Eames said. "We need to do this. And I'm not going to make either of you shoot me."

"Nothing about this is okay, Eames," Jones said.

Eames—both of him—reached up to rub against his chest again. The dream quavered, hairline tremors that set Eames' teeth on edge.

"Eames, what's wrong?" Jones asked.

"Nothing," Eames said, frowning. "I don't know."

The first strains of music trickled down to them. But as Eames raised his gun, the room around him shuddered and tipped, and he was falling, falling, fa—

~+~+~

He felt the pain before he fully woke up. Twisting, burning.

"Shit," he croaked, and opened his eyes.

"Sorry for the rough wake-up," Kim said. "I was in a hurry."

Eames looked around the room. Levine was standing at the side of Arthur's bed, glaring at him as if he could kill him with his eyes alone.

"We didn't find it," Weisman reported. "We've looked everywhere."

"Mine's in the house," Eames said. He clambered to his feet and couldn't stop his wince at the pain.

Levine's eyes quickly turned to him. "What's wrong?" he asked, quietly controlled.

"Nothing," Eames said quickly. "Sore chest, that's all."

Jones swore and walked over to Arthur, still sedated in the hospital bed. "I fucking warned you guys," he muttered. "Shit, shit, _shit._ "

"What are you talking about?" Ariadne asked.

Jones gestured at Arthur. "He's probably having another attack. The sedative will still keep him under, and I think it might even be delaying the attack, but…" He turned to Eames. "You're still going to feel everything when it hits."

Eames closed his eyes. "Bloody brilliant," he muttered.

Levine turned and walked the length of the room, stalking like a caged tiger.

"That's why your dream was shaking, then," Michaels said to Eames. "The pain?"

Eames shrugged carefully. "Yeah, probably."

"Every fucking time," Levine hissed. He turned to Eames again. "How bad is it in the dream?"

"It's not that strong," Eames said.

Levine's eyes narrowed. Eames arched a brow at him.

Levine inhaled sharply. "Okay, we go under again. And we fucking hurry. The minute we find the object, I'll kick one of you out to tell Ari to start the music." His eyes flicked over to Arthur. "We need to be awake before the attack hits full-on. We don't know what that would do to the dream."

"Copy that, Sarge," Kim murmured.

Michaels clapped his hands together. "Let's go."

~+~+~

Eames opened his eyes to the same abandoned street.

"So," Jones said slowly. "Do we just sit in the house? With him?"

Michaels sighed. "I mean, we have to. We don't know when the others will find their object."

Jones fidgeted. "I'll stand guard outside. Yeah?"

Michaels glanced at Eames then back at Jones. "Yeah," he said. "Sounds good, bud."

~+~+~

Eames and Michaels walked into the sitting room; the other Eames hadn't moved.

Michaels sighed heavily and sat on the couch. "I'll be glad when you're rid of this asshole, Eames," he said.

Eames nodded.

The other Eames shuddered and looked up. "What are you doing here?" he asked. He trembled and swallowed heavily. "Are you…are you here to help me?"

Michaels glanced at Eames.

Eames tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. He cleared his throat. "Yeah," he managed. "Yeah, we are."

He watched himself blink slowly, remembered how debilitating the pain used to get. "You can make this pain go away?" his other self asked.

Michaels shifted on the couch but remained silent.

Eames nodded. "Yeah, I can. That's what I came here for."

The other Eames stared at him. "I know you," he said slowly. He shuddered again, and Eames could feel the pain twisting in his own chest, throbbing just beneath the surface. Around them, the dream wavered.

"I know you," the other Eames repeated. He met Eames' eyes. "Did you find something happier? Better than here?"

Eames swallowed. "I did. I have."

"Good," the other Eames breathed.

Across the room, a vase fell off the shaking table and crashed to the floor.

"Eames," Michaels said, and then they heard it. The opening piano riff.

Eames stood, pulled out his gun. The other Eames watched him placidly.

"Eames, you don't have to do this," Michaels said. "I can do it."

"No," Eames said. "No, I need to do this."

The lyrics drifted down to them, echoing.

_Clipped wings, I was a broken thing,  
had a voice, had a voice, but I could not sing_

The other Eames looked at the gun, then up at Eames. "So that's how," he said. "That's how you can get me out of here?"

Eames nodded. "Yeah. Only way." He raised the gun slightly. "I shoot you at the end of this first verse. Just before the chorus."

The other Eames smiled even as another shard of pain went through them both. "I don't get to hear the chorus?"

"I'll listen to it for you," Eames heard himself say. The window next to him cracked, the glass splintering.

_So lost the line had been crossed,  
had a voice, had a voice, but I could not talk_

"Okay," the other Eames said. He smiled more easily. "Okay, if you promise."

Eames nodded. "I promise."

_But there's a scream inside that we all try to hide_  
_we hold on so tight, we cannot deny  
_ _eats us alive, oh it eats us alive, oh_

Eames raised the gun, inhaled deeply. He could feel Michaels behind him, a steady presence.

The other Eames smiled at him again, and his body didn't shake, despite the pain Eames could feel coursing through him—through both of them.

"Do it," he said, sitting up straight. "Set us free."

_Yeah, there's a scream inside that we all try to hide,_  
_we hold on so tight, but I don't wanna die, no,  
_ _I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die, yeah_

Eames pulled the trigger as the single, high note rippled through the room, and the dream shattered.

~+~+~

Eames woke slowly, waiting for the pain to register. It didn't. He opened his eyes and marveled at the lightness in his chest, the blissful emptiness.

"You son of a bitch!" Levine shouted.

Eames was on his feet before he realized he had moved. Across the room, Weisman, Kim, and Jones were surrounding Levine, forcibly keeping him from Arthur's hospital bed.

"That son of a bitch," Levine snarled. "Why the fuck are you stopping me, bastard deserves every fucking punishment I can give him."

"Come on, Sarge," Jones said, "settle down, okay?"

"Believe me," Kim added darkly, "I want to kill him, too. But what does that solve?"

Levine growled one last time, then abruptly stopped fighting against them. "Alright," he said. "Fine." He turned and scanned the rest of the room, his dark eyes settling on Eames.

"You okay?" he asked, voice lower.

Eames nodded. "It worked," he said. "I can't feel anything."

"Oh, thank god," Weisman said. "I'm glad we got you separated from this piece of shit."

Michaels put a hand on his shoulder. "Feeling crazy at all?"

Eames smiled. "No."

He looked back across the room, met Levine's eyes.

"Okay," Levine said. He turned, locked up his PASIV. "Let's get out of here." He stalked out of the room, glaring at Arthur's sedated form as he passed by.

The room fell silent for a moment.

"What was his object?" Jones asked.

Kim hesitated. "It was horrible," she said. "He's a horrible person."

Eames nodded. "Let's go, we're done here."

They filed out of the hospital and found Levine waiting at the car. As they put their things in the trunk, Eames pulled Ariadne aside.

"This might be weird," he said, "but can I borrow your iPod?"

Ariadne handed it to him, and he took it and sat in the back seat of the car. Levine was driving, his eyes darting from the road ahead to the rearview mirror. Eames met his gaze and smiled quietly. As he watched, Levine's grip relaxed on the steering wheel.

Eames scrolled through Ariadne's library until he found the song she had used for the kick. He slipped on the earbuds and hit play, and he watched the rest of the world fly past as the music filled his ears.

_Now I fly, hit the high notes, I_  
_have a voice, have a voice, hear me roar tonight.  
_ _You held me down, but I fought back loud, oh_

He rubbed at his chest and thought that it was finally his. There was no pain, no tension. It was just his body, his skin, his bone.

They had done it.

Eames let the motion of the car lull him to sleep, the chorus of the song echoing in his ears.

_No, I don't care if I sing off key,_  
_I find myself in my melodies,_  
_I sing for love, I sing for me,  
_ _I'll shout it out like a bird set free._

_Yeah,_ he thought, just as sleep took him. _I'm free._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone send love and hugs to Flosculatory for threatening to kick my ass and tie me to my desk until I wrote more Bird :D Love you, boo <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levine nodded and brought Eames' hand to his face. He pressed his cheek against Eames' hand, eyes closed. They stood there, breathing together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This is it, guys. I have finally managed to wrangle together the final chapter of Bird Set Free. I started this fic on October 13, 2016. It’s taken me nearly two years to finish it (SORRY), but here it is, at long last: the conclusion to this journey. 
> 
> This chapter is more like an epilogue, really. All the edge-of-your-seat drama got resolved last chapter, and I technically could have ended this fic there. But when I was posting it and Flosculatory was beta-ing it, we agreed that to cut it off where I end Chapter 11 would be too abrupt, so you all get an extra chapter instead! Enjoy!

Levine appeared at Eames' side as the team walked into the hotel. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Eames smiled slightly. "Good," he said, then laughed because the word was so inadequate. He took Levine's hand and placed it over his own chest.

"There always was this tightness here," Eames murmured. "Even with the suppressants, I could still feel it, like it was just sitting, waiting for the drugs to wear off." 

He looked up and met Levine's eyes. 

"I don't feel it anymore. There's nothing. It's…it's amazing."

Levine looked at him, eyes glittering. "Good," he said. "That's good."

Eames frowned. "Are you okay?"

Levine nodded and brought Eames' hand to his face. He pressed his cheek against Eames' hand, eyes closed. They stood there, breathing together.

"Hey, guys!" Jones called. "You coming? We should debrief, right?"

Levine sighed and released Eames' hand. "We're right behind you," he called.

~+~+~

"So it worked," Michaels said when they had all found their seats. "Eames isn't brain-dead, and he isn't having pseudo-heart attacks anymore."

Eames nodded. "I'm fine, nothing hurts, nothing feels broken."

Weisman cleared his throat. "So that's it?" he asked. "We clean up and split up, like always?"

Everyone turned to Levine. "Yes," he said. "But first, I want to thank you all for coming with such short notice and—"

"Any time, sarge," Michaels said, eyes steady. "I mean it. You call, we're here, no matter what."

The others nodded. 

Levine paused, mouth open slightly. His eyes glittered.

Eames sighed dramatically. "You guys!" he whined, wiping at an eye. "I'm so touched!"

Jones snorted. "Shut up, you drama queen."

Eames gasped in mock outrage as the others snickered.

Levine straightened, then stood. "Thank you," he said, quieter. "I don't—Your money will be wired to you in a couple days."

"Don't worry about it," Weisman said, with a flick of his hand. "I'm just glad Eames doesn't have to deal with that dickhead anymore."

Kim stood, casually holding Ariadne's hand. "Likewise." She glanced around the room. "And not to cut this short, but I booked our tickets the other day. We have to run and catch our flight."

"Keep in touch," Michaels said.

"Reunion in a month or six?" Jones asked.

Kim smiled. "Yes."

Levine crossed the room and pulled Ariadne aside. The two spoke briefly before Levine reached out and pulled her into a crushing hug. 

"Take care of yourself," Eames heard Arthur say.

"Right backatcha," Ariadne said, smiling.

After Kim and Ariadne left, the others gathered their things and slowly said their goodbyes. 

"I mean it," Jones said on his way out the door. "Reunion. I'm gonna text you all!"

"We get it," Michaels said, smirking. "Now get your ass home, we're sick of looking at it."

Jones flipped him off and walked out of the room.

Michaels was the last to leave, and he pulled Eames aside while Levine fiddled with their PASIVs. 

"You good?" he asked.

"Yeah," Eames said. "Thanks."

Michaels clapped his shoulder. "If you need anything," he said, "or if you just want to talk. Anything at all, you know where to reach me."'

Eames smiled and pulled Michaels into a hug. "I know," he said. "Thank you."

Michaels said his goodbyes to Levine then left without much fanfare. The room seemed silent without the rest of the team crowded inside.

Levine walked over to Eames, carrying their packed bags. "Shall we?" he asked, smiling.

~+~+~

They went to Levine's apartment in Belgium, a quaint hole-in-the-wall down the street from a bakery that made their bedroom smell like fresh pastries every morning.

Eames loved it. 

Every morning, he walked down the street to buy something for breakfast and snuck back into the bedroom to tempt Levine out of bed with a chocolate croissant fresh out of the oven. Every evening, Levine cooked them dinner, playfully fending off Eames' attempts to throw random shit into the pans. 

It was almost painfully domestic, but Eames couldn't bring himself to care. 

He stopped waiting for the tension in his chest, stopped rubbing at that spot between his ribs so often. Stopped thinking about Arthur.

~+~+~

At night, Eames dreamed. They were blurred, foggy things, confused by the Somnacin in his system. Sharp, painful smiles. Red lipstick stains against white collars. Icy blue eyes.

But then, the dreams would change. Levine would walk in, clasp Eames' hand in his own, whisper quiet words.

Somehow, even in a blurred and foggy dreams, Levine's kisses always felt sweet and strong and real.

~+~+~

That first night after they had broken Eames' Soulbond, as they had pressed against each other in the dark, Eames had whispered, "What was it? In Arthur's subconscious?"

And Levine had stilled, briefly, before continuing to map Eames' skin with his hands.

"Was it bad?" Eames had asked. 

Levine's response was barely more than a whisper. "Yes."

He had kissed Eames then, gentle and soft, so wonderfully soft, and Eames had let himself get lost in the beauty of it.

Later, much later, when the sky outside was almost pitch black and Eames was drifting off to sleep, he heard Levine breathe, "But I let it go. I set you free."

~+~+~

Eames dialed Michaels' number one afternoon while Levine was out hunting for bargains at the market.

"Hey, is everything okay?" Michaels asked the minute he picked up.

Eames laughed. "Yeah. You said I could call whenever."

"Of course," Michaels said. "I just wanted to know if I had to get out of my fuzzy slippers or not."

"No, it's fine," Eames said, smirking. "The fuzzy slippers can stay."

"Perfect." There was noise on the other end of the line, like Michaels was shifting around. "What's up?"

Eames shrugged even though Michaels couldn't see it. "Just restless."

"Mhmm," Michaels responded. "What's really going on?"

Eames sighed and looked around. "It's weird. I thought it would be different."

"What would be different?" Michaels asked.

"Not having a Soulmate." Eames rubbed at his chest. "I just thought it would feel different. I'd have this giant weight lifted off my chest or something, you know? But it just feels like it always felt when I was on my suppressants, I just don't have to take the pills anymore."

"No more heart attacks, too," Michaels said. "That's a plus, I would think."

"Yeah," Eames said. "It's just…"

"Anticlimactic," Michaels finished.

"Yeah, exactly. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for something else to happen. I mean, we got rid of my Soulmate, shouldn't I feel something from that?"

Michaels was quiet for a moment. "Okay, two things. First of all, he was a disgusting excuse for a Soulmate, so I don't think you should feel bad for not feeling anything now. You didn't feel anything except pain when you were actually with him, so it makes total sense to me that you don't miss that now."

Eames grunted.

"Second of all, you got rid of that Soulmate, yeah, but that doesn't mean you don't have one now."

Eames hesitated. "What?"

"You and the Sarge?" Michaels asked. "Or am I wrong? Are you not currently living with him in some cute little bungalow hidden away from all the bad guys?"

"Fuck you," Eames said, laughing.

"I'm serious," Michaels said. "Levine's the Soulmate you were supposed to have, as far as I'm concerned. So maybe that's why nothing feels different to you—you guys were basically already Soulmates, it was just that the other asshole was in the way."

Eames hummed as he pondered that. "You know," he said slowly, "you're a lot smarter than you look."

Michaels laughed.

"Thanks," Eames added. "I needed that."

"Anytime," Michaels said. "I mean it."

Eames smiled. "Hey, enough about me, how have you been?"

"Boring old me?" Michaels asked. "Not much. I did find a new job, though, was gonna ask if you wanted to join."

"What's it for?"

"Breaking Soulbonds." Michaels cleared his throat. "There's a whole quiet community of people trapped in Soulmate relationships that are abusive or unhealthy. I was thinking we could reform the old team, plus Ari now, and help some people out."

Eames closed his eyes. "Can I think about it?" he asked. "I don't really know what I feel like doing yet for dreamshare."

"Sure thing, bud," Michaels said. "Just wanted to make sure you got first dibs."

"Thanks for that." Eames heard Levine's key in the door. "Hey, I have to go, but I'll call you again later, okay?"

"Sounds good. See you."

"Bye."

He hung up as Levine walked inside, bags tucked under one arm. "Honey, I'm home," Levine called drily.

Eames chuckled and stood to help him with the bags. "Did you scare them all into marking everything half off?"

Levine rolled his eyes. "I grabbed that garlic bread you love so much."

"Brilliant." Eames pawed through the bags. "I called Michaels."

Levine walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around Eames' waist, tucking his nose between Eames' shoulder blades. He inhaled slowly. "How's he doing?"

"Good." Eames found the garlic bread and pulled it out triumphantly. "He said he's found a bunch of people trying to get out abusive Soulbonds. Asked if I wanted to join up with him."

"And what did you say?" Levine asked.

"I said I had to think about it." Eames turned in Levine's arms and pressed their noses against each other. "Would you be interested in it?"

"He asked you, not me," Levine said.

Eames smiled. "But I'm asking you now."

Levine kissed the tip of his nose. "Try it if you want to," he said. "And if you like it, then maybe I'll tag along on the next one."

Eames nodded slowly. "I have another question for you," he whispered.

"Shoot," Levine said.

Eames smirked. "Did you get the cheese I like, too? Because I can't eat this bread without my cheese."

Levine laughed.

~+~+~

One early morning, Levine woke Eames with a kiss and said, "Let's go on a field trip."

"Okay?" Eames rubbed his eyes and sat up. "Field trip where?"

Levine smiled and kissed him again. "Get dressed."

"Is it even day yet?" Eames asked as he stumbled out of bed.

Levine laughed, and Eames wished he could bottle up the sound and listen to it forever.

He got dressed.

Levine drove them to the cliffs overlooking the sea. They arrived just as the sun appeared over the edge of the horizon.

"This is beautiful," Eames said, wrapping an arm around Levine's waist. "Was it worth waking me up at the arse crack of dawn, though?"

"Yes," Levine said. He went to the car and came back with a small cage. Inside was a twittering bird. "We broke your Soulbond," Levine said as he held out the cage. "And I just found out—the asshole died last week."

Levine reached out and caught Eames' hand as it moved to rub at his chest. He pressed a kiss to the back of it and handed Eames the cage.

"You're officially free," he said.

Eames looked into Levine's eyes then turned back towards the rising sun. Inside the cage, the bird was singing, welcoming the morning light.

"Yeah," Eames said, smiling. "I'm free."

As the sun fully rose over the ocean, Eames opened the cage and watched the bird fly away, racing across the waves.

He turned back to Levine and pulled him close. "Thank you," he murmured. 

"No," Levine said. "Thank you for barging into my life and just—" He glanced away briefly. "I'm glad I met you."

Eames laughed. "Likewise."

Levine snorted. "This is coming out wrong."

"Don't overthink it, then," Eames answered.

Levine arched a brow at him and smirked. "Okay, then." He stepped back then smoothly went down on one knee. "Will you marry me?"

And in the light of the rising sun, without a single tug at that string that used to be inside of his chest, Eames looked into Arthur Levine's eyes and said, "Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you first and foremost to [flosculatory,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory/pseuds/flosculatory) my superfriend, mouse spouse, and typo-destroying, plot-producing beta, who sat with me and brainstormed every single thing that appeared in this fic.
> 
> But I also want to thank all of my readers, for cheering me on along the way and for patiently waiting for me to pull my damn head out of my ass to write a new chapter every couple of months. You all have been great, thank you so much!
> 
>  
> 
> PS: If you ask me nicely enough, I may return to this 'verse and give you some snippets from Levine's POV. Maybe.


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